


Everything Seems To Be Estranged

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: Everything Seems To Be Estranged [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Characters to be added, Confusion, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Person POV Ryan, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing in the Rain, Lust, M/M, Making Out, Maybe - Freeform, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Payback, Peterick, Public Display of Affection, Road Trips, Ryden, Self-Harm, Supernatural Elements, Tags to be added, Teasing, also pete is lowkey a dick, and im sorry to say that ty's an ashen, and so is halsey, drug mention, ethical battles, forbidden desire, i came up with this au i hope it makes sense lmao, josh is dead, joshler - Freeform, literally no one asked for this, looking at u ryan, or a ghost, or maybe brendon's just not real, ryan's blood system was fucked up for some reason, so.. yeah, who knows - Freeform, yes zack is the guy buying the pink tank top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: Clear — a world of possibilities, a soulmate you have yet to meet.Crimson — a life of requited love and safety with someone you were destined to be with.Black — years spent in mourning for a lost lover that’ll never return.Blood runs red in most adults’ veins; not Ryan’s. Having watched his blood turn black as a teenager, he has no hopes of leading a happy life. That is, until he meets Brendon, a young man with blood as clear as water.Has Ryan's own body made a mistake? Or is Brendon even really alive?





	1. Prologue

 

 

Our future’s in our blood. Literally. 

 

I’m not talking about some genealogy bullshit; the colour of our blood lets us know who it is we’re destined to spend the rest of our lives with. It’s kinda scary, really. 

 

We’re all born with transparent blood. Just as clear as water, slightly thicker in consistency. I remember seeing bags of them in the hospital as a child, and wondering how nurses didn’t confuse them with the saline solutions that looked oh-so similar. I’m still not sure to this day, but then there’s no way I’ll ever step into a hospital again. 

 

At some point in life, the blood turns red; that happens once you meet that one person you’re destined to be with. There’s really no telling when that’ll happen, though. When I was in elementary school, some kid had fallen down a tree he was climbing —fucking idiot— and torn his knee open. He cried until he realised that the blood trickling down his leg wasn’t, in fact, as limpid as everyone expected, but a deep, rich red, like the gemstones my father never let my mother indulge in. He’d paraded around the playground, wincing each time he had to take a step but too proud to sit down in a corner. All the other kids had ooh’ed and aah’ed at his performance. I don’t remember if I cared. Probably. The prospect of true love must’ve sounded good to a nine-year-old who’d never really experienced love at all. I’ve learned to give up on that idea, though.

 

My blood turned black when I was fifteen. 

 

No one wants to see their blood turn black. Black blood means loneliness, means being forsaken. A reject, a pariah. Blood turns black when your soulmate dies. 

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if no one knew, but, contrary to transparent and red blood that are virtually indistinguishable through the skin, black blood shows. The biggest veins are visible, a faded grey, reminding their owner of their loveless future and announcing it to anyone who lay eyes upon them. I try not to think of that each time I catch sight of my hands and arms. 

 

I don’t know who my soulmate is. Was. 

 

I can’t bring myself to think of them in the past tense; I never even knew them. My blood went from transparent to black; not even a spot of red. I went from innocence to despondency in one day. 

 

I used to wonder how they died; not because it made me feel better, but because it reminded me that it was real, that there was a reason why the blood coursing through my veins wasn’t clear nor crimson. I’d found myself hoping that they’d died in an accident, and they hadn’t suffered. It was better than any alternative. I can’t even remember how many sleepless nights fifteen-year-old Ryan went through, pillow pressed in front of his mouth to smother the sobs that wouldn’t stop. It was harsh, at first. Imagine having all hope of love and affection and _home_ torn away from you as you watch your veins go dark. It was tough. I made it through. I still don’t know how, but I did. 

 

The normal-blooded ones call us the Ashens. I guess that’s fair enough. We’re the ones who’ll never love, or the ones who’ve lost. We can pair off together, us black-blooded ones, but what little affection we can muster is nothing compared to the passion true love instils. I consider myself lucky; I’ve never known it, so I can’t miss it. It’s not quite the same for those who have had a taste of it, who can remember every feature of their other half and yet never be able to see them again. 

 

Tyler’s one of those. One who’s lost. 

 

Josh had been the centre of his world, the pillar that held up the sky. Two years ago, Tyler’s blood had turned pitch black as Josh died, holding his hand. His arms are now inked with patterns, as if he’s trying to hide the black running through his veins with black running on his skin. He talks about Josh daily, and I think it’s because he’s afraid he’ll forget. I’d be afraid, too.  One thing he’s never told me, though, is how Josh died. He never talks about it. His eyes go dark whenever the conversation gets remotely close to that subject, and I’ve learned to be respectful. Not to pry, not to ask. 

 

But, ultimately, I’m pretty sure we’re the winners of this whole game that is life. Once you get through the pain, nothing can really get to you anymore.

 

 

I’ve seen enough to know.

 

 

I can live without love.


	2. All Summed Up

 

Tuesday mornings are the worst. 

 

The room’s mostly empty but for another guy, Pete, and me. Pete's wearing black skinny jeans and a red t-shirt that hurts my eyes, so I focus on the potted plant in one of the corners of the room instead. It looks like it’s dying. I wonder who was in charge of watering it and why they’re doing such a shit job as I sit down, a numb ache in the back of my head.

 

The coffee machine that’s habitually in the hallway had a “OUT OF ORDER” sign stuck on it today, so I had to go without my daily dose. Lack of caffeine in my system combined with obnoxious people might end up badly, but I’ve got no choice. Besides, I’m already here. 

 

Pete sits across from me, examining his newly-ringed hand. Not that he needs to know which finger it’s on, but he wants the attention. He must be waiting for me to say something about it, congratulate him or at least make a comment. I don’t find it in me to do so. Or maybe I just want to be an asshole to him today; I haven’t made up my mind yet. 

 

“Oh, my God, _Pete_!” Ashley squeals as she walks in, the pile of books in her hands hastily thrown onto the table with a loud bang, nearly knocking over the small potted cactus sitting in the middle. It looks much healthier than that poor plant in the corner. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t need water. Ashley rushes to where Pete’s sitting and grabs his hand as if it were some kind of treasure. Pete smiles, satisfied of someone _finally_ noticing. I roll my eyes. 

 

It’s just a ring, for fuck’s sake. 

 

“When was it?” 

 

She sounds so excited, you’d think she was the one getting married. Pete has a smug look on his face, holding out his hand for Ashley to examine. The ring looks pretty cheap to me, some sort of shiny metal that you can find in any wannabe-jewellery shop. 

 

“Last night,” Pete says proudly, eyes shining. “Took ‘Trick out to dinner, and proposed to him right there. He _so_ wasn’t expecting it,” he adds, as if proposing was some kind of feat. Calm down, boy. You just whipped out a piece of jewellery and asked him if he wanted to marry you. Pretty sure that’s about it. 

 

Ashley aww’s and I refrain from rolling my eyes again.  “Trick” is Patrick, a short, blond man that looks like he spends his life in a record shop. I think he and Pete met at one, actually, about a month ago. I hadn’t known Pete bought music, let alone _listened to_ music, but fair enough.  

 

No one’s surprised at the fact that they’re engaged after barely a month of meeting each other, though. When you know who your soulmate is, there’s no more time for second guessing or hesitating. You act on it. Life is short, and, according to everyone, it’s worth spending it with that one person. So you get married. Have a bunch of kids. Or dogs. Or, in Pete and Patrick’s case, probably records. 

 

Andy walks in, and Ashley motions enthusiastically for him to step closer before leaning back down to investigate. He does, craning his neck to see over Ashley’s shoulder: he’s shorter than her when she’s wearing those immense heels. He says something in a low voice, and Pete beams at him, repeating his little story from seconds before. I stretch my legs under the table, glance at the clock hanging on the wall and cough loudly to get their attention. It’s quarter past ten. Ashley turns her head my way, and the smile disappears from her face as she looks at my bare forearms, replaced by a look of pity mixed with guilt. I shift and stick my hands in my pockets, under the table. Out of sight. Yeah. Ashen. It’s tough to tell whether she’s really sorry, or just made uncomfortable by the sight of my vascular abnormality. It’s true that she talks to Tyler and I less than to the two others, though Andy barely ever speaks. 

 

“I’m sorry, Ryan, I— We—” She starts, but I shake my head dismissively. I’m used to it. Seeing people meet and fall in love in front of me, and then stare at my skin, thinking they must’ve been shoving it in my face. They always apologise after, as if saying sorry would make my blood turn transparent again. Believe me, it doesn’t. I’d know by now. 

 

“It’s fine,” I say, but she looks just as uncomfortable. Good. Andy rounds the table and comes to sit next to me, as per usual, and Pete looks disgruntled. Sorry for stealing the attention, buddy, but we got work to do. 

 

Well, speaking to do. 

 

This is some sort of class for those who hate speaking in public. I can’t even remember why I ended up here. I don’t hate speaking in public. I just don’t. 

 

There’s no teacher, either. We’re all deemed adult enough to be able to figure out a way of making this work, so it always ends up with either Ashley or Pete talking all the way through, and Andy, Tyler and I half-listening to them. I’m not sure why they even come to these sessions: they don’t seem to need them at all. Maybe it’s to boost their self-confidence. I doubt it works; all they get when they ask “How was it?” in a hopeful tone are grunts (Andy) and unenthusiastic nods (Tyler, sometimes me). 

 

“You alright?” Andy mutters, not looking at me. He doesn’t speak much, less than I do, even, but he’s reassuring company, more so than Tyler, though most of the time I’m glad he’s here too. I’d go insane alone with Pete and Ashley. Those two are huddled together now, probably talking about how _insanely_ expensive weddings are, and how Patrick wanted lilac tuxedos when Pete swore by traditional black. 

 

Andy isn’t an Ashen, though he might as well be. I think he’s about thirty-five, and he hasn’t ever told me about a soulmate of any sort. Maybe he doesn’t care. He looks strong, like he doesn’t need it to be happy. I would’ve needed someone like him to tell me that, six years ago. 

 

Tyler walks in, closes the door behind him and sits down on my other side, greeting me briefly. He doesn’t bother to go to the others, and I smile at him. He looks exhausted, brown eyes ringed with dark grey, but the ghost of a smile passes on his lips. He’s wearing a jacket over a white t-shirt. I’ve noticed he never wears black ones, and neither do I. I wonder if it’s because of the same reasons, because black makes the veins stand out even more. Jackets are fine, though, because they have sleeves, which cover everything we have to hide. The veins are thinner on the back of the hands, less noticeable. 

 

After Tyler sits down, Pete stands up and starts talking to everyone about how _exactly_ Patrick and he met —I was right, it was the record shop—, how they realised that they were soulmates —Pete accidentally cutting his finger open while chopping onions—, and how thankful he is for having met Patrick. Blah blah, blah blah.

I catch Ashley casting glances at Tyler and me every five minutes, as if to make sure that we’re not bawling our eyes out.  We’re not. I’m barely even listening, but Tyler’s jaw is set, and I can almost hear his thoughts. 

 

Josh. 

 

Josh. Josh. Josh. _Josh_.

 

I feel a rush of pity for the guy. He certainly didn’t deserve that. I wonder what Josh was like, whether he was the laughing type. Whether he made Tyler laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tyler laugh.  

 

Suddenly, as Pete drones on about Patrick’s “storm-coloured eyes”, the door swings wide open, slamming into the wall. There’s a young man behind it, and he looks about as surprised as Pete does, though not as offended. Pete hates being cut off. 

 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he blurts out, looking at each of us in turn. “Is this the public speaking class thing?” 

 

I hear a chuckle from my left and realise that it’s Andy, who’s shaking his head, a small smile on his face. 

 

“Yeah,” Ashley answers, and the young man lets out a sigh of relief, falling into the chair next to her. Pete raises an eyebrow.

 

“And you are?” 

 

He sounds pissed off, probably because the attention has, once again, shifted from him, especially since he was talking about two of his favourite subjects: himself and Patrick. 

 

“Urie,” the man answers, catching his breath. “Brendon Urie.” Dark brown hair falls into his eyes as he struggles to take off his leather jacket. Pete looks at Ashley in confusion, but the girl throws her hair back and shrugs as if to say that the name doesn’t ring a bell at all. I huff. It’s not like these classes aren’t free anyway. 

 

It’d be like them, though, to try and charge the newcomer for the “I talk about myself” sessions.

 

I look at said newcomer. He’s got a pen and a piece of paper out now, a pair of black-rimmed glasses in front of him, ready to be used. I try to picture him wearing them, without success. My imagination is failing me.  

 

Pete resumes his almost-philosophical speech about Patrick, and Brendon looks confused, but doesn’t say anything. He looks at me, and I shrug, rolling my eyes, hoping that he’ll get the message. He smiles, so I think he must have. 

 

Tyler shifts next to me, and something tells me that Andy’s fallen asleep. It may be the light snoring giving him away. I admire him for having the power to doze off so fast, but then again, Pete _is_ making it easy to do so. 

 

When Pete finally sits back down, I look at my phone. Twenty to noon. That fucker took his time. Ashley’s about to stand up to tell her own story —usually a mix of family problems, cat problems (she’s got four) and healthy smoothie recipes— when I look at Brendon. The sheet of paper in front of him has scribbles all over it, and for a second it’s hard for me to believe it. That idiot took notes. About _Pete_ ’s life. 

 

Oh well. At least that’ll make Pete like him. 

 

“Would you mind introducing yourself, Brendon?” 

 

He looks like a deer caught in headlights, and for a split second I feel bad for having spoken. But then again, anything to save me from twenty more minutes of non-stop ranting. He stands up, running a hand through his unruly hair, making it stick up at funny angles. 

 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says, and I hear Tyler whispering “Thanks” to me. I nudge him with my shoulder to let him know I accept his gratitude. I’m a hero for having saved the three of us —well, two, since Andy’s asleep— from Ashley’s “me” session. 

 

“So, my name’s Brendon and I’m twenty. I’m from Nevada,” he says. Hm. One year younger than me, though he looks even younger than that. He looks eighteen. “I’m currently a barista but I hope to get to college next year, and, uh, yeah. That’s it.” 

 

A boy whose life can be summed up in three sentences. Three words, even.

 

Twenty. Nevada. Barista. 

 

He looks like there’s more to him than that. 

 

“What colour?” Ashley asks obnoxiously, and I keep myself from shooting her a death glare. She’s obviously mad about not having had her turn. Brendon looks puzzled. 

 

“What do you mean—”

 

“She means your blood,” I contribute, scratching my eyebrow. Brendon smiles at me gratefully. No problem, kid. Plus, I’m curious, so it’s a win-win. 

 

“Transparent, still, I think,” he tells Ashley, who smiles at him. If I didn’t know her better, I wouldn't detect the hint of superiority in her expression: her blood is red. He smiles back, and I realise that the situation is worse than I thought. He’s an idiot, and he’s _nice_. 

 

Brendon sits back down and Ashley stands up hastily, casting me an almost-defying glance that I ignore. I’m not going to speak, even if it means enduring her doing so. I hear Tyler sigh deeply next to me, and I sympathise. 

 

***

Fifteen minutes later, we’re done, and Brendon gathers his things and nods everyone goodbye briefly before walking out the door. I don’t have anything to take with me, so I pat Andy on the shoulder —he’s still asleep, and I don't have the heart to wake him up— and exchange a quick handshake with Tyler. Crossing the threshold, I see Brendon disappearing at the end of the corridor, towards the exit, and I pick up the pace to try to catch him before he vanishes on the busy street. I have to talk to the stupid kind boy; he’d get eaten alive by Pete and Ashley. 

 

“Hey,” I say when I reach him, slightly breathless, and he turns around. 

 

“Hey!” Brendon smiles, immediately followed by a frown. “I’m not sure I caught your name earlier, I’m sorry,” he says, and I shake my head to let him know it’s alright. 

 

“I’m Ryan, nice to meet you,” I say, and roll my eyes internally at how stupidly formal I sound. He nods and we start towards the exit again. 

 

“Those two, uh, Ashley and Peter? They’re really extroverted, huh?” 

 

I don’t bother to correct him about Pete’s name. My personal little revenge on what he makes me go through every Tuesday.

 

“Yeah, it’s more of a fucked up group therapy where they talk and we listen,” I say, and he laughs, dark eyes twinkling, and I feel an odd jolt in my stomach. I don’t know whether he’s noticed I’m an Ashen, but he doesn’t say anything and I’m grateful for it.

 

I push the main door open and the sounds of the city crash onto us. I can’t remember what I wanted to talk to him about.

 

“Well, I’m going that way,” he says, pointing in the opposite direction than the one I came from. Something nags at me, but I’m not sure what it is. 

 

“Okay, I’ll see you next week!”

 

 

_Hopefully._

 

 

He nods and smiles before turning around, soon disappearing into the cluster of people roaming the streets of LA. 

 

I roll up the sleeve of my jacket, exposing my forearm. Disappointment shoots through me as I see the dark grey veins spidering along the inside of it, just like every day for the past six years. Just like it will for the rest of my life. 

 

I don’t know what I expected. 

 


	3. Ocean Shard

All we see are fragments. Bits and pieces of other people’s lives, from our own straitened glimpses we catch when they let us in. It’s tough. It’s like looking across the ocean and never really knowing what hides beneath the smooth water, but not once daring to step into it, by fear of finding yourself trapped in something later inescapable. 

 

Or something like that.

 

I stare at a crack in the wall. 

 

The microwave lets out an irritating beep, cutting off my train of thought abruptly and announcing that my food’s ready. I really should try and get that crack fixed. I swing open the microwave door, and it doesn’t smell like anything, though it’s not really supposed to. It’s just pasta. Anything else makes me want to gag.

 

I sit at the tiny table and start eating, deliberately avoiding to look at my phone that’s sitting on the edge of the tiny kitchen sink. Everything’s tiny in here. 

 

Everything’s tiny, and everything’s messy, but I can’t afford to get a bigger place. No landlord would ever accept to rent out a place meant for a couple to an Ashen, either. That just doesn’t happen. 

 

It’s not as if we’re outcasts, exactly, but life is just made irksome enough that a lot of us decide to leave. There are towns out there, filled with people like me, who live alone, together, alone together. It’s not as if any real connection can happen between two people who were destined for someone else, someone else who’s no longer breathing. But they make do. Sometimes I wonder if they’re happy at all, whether that happiness can even compare to what it feels like when blood turns red. 

 

It’s the stares that are the worst. I remember feeling it in my bones, the burn of people’s gazes wherever I went, a mix of pity and mild disgust. It had never been the case before: I’d been the invisible kid, sat at the back of the classroom, never speaking in fear of saying something stupid, of people laughing at me. After, I didn't even need to open my mouth for them to laugh, to point, to whisper. The attention belonged to me, as if I was some kind of walking disease. Everyone knows about Ashens, especially at fifteen. 

That’s the age where you realise —after the “ew, love is gross” phase— that, hey, maybe having someone to love forever wouldn’t be that bad after all. 

 

I finish my plate, and my phone buzzes. Again. 

 

I don’t want to see what he sent me. I don’t want to get involved. 

 

Truth is, I’m scared of what he has to say, scared of the story he’ll unravel if I listen to him, because he will. He needs to, and I know he does, but I can’t bring myself to say yes. I can’t walk into the ocean. But then, I have a thought. 

 

What if he’s drowning in his own ocean? 

 

Buzz. It makes my phone move an inch to the right, dangerously close to falling into the sink. Maybe it will. That’ll solve the dilemma I’m facing right now. The white tiles behind the tap are glowing in the late afternoon light, and it’s almost pretty. I could go into the room that serves of both living room and bedroom and open the window to let some fresh air in. That’s what my mother would’ve wanted me to do. I can almost hear what she’d say if she saw this place. “How can you live in a _pigsty,_ Ryan?” 

 

I huff. She’s got nothing to say about my living like this. I haven’t seen her in six years. Deserted. 

 

I remember the look in her eyes the morning I’d gotten down to the kitchen, tears running down my face and my hands outstretched in front of me, refusing to believe what I was seeing. The veins were so dark, that day. I’d asked her what was wrong with me, though I knew exactly what had happened. They died. My soulmate. The only person who would’ve wanted me for me.

 

And, instead of holding me and telling me it was going to be okay, she let the bacon burn and made a beeline out of the kitchen, out of the house. I still remember the smell. You know how people associate smells and tastes with memories? I’m pretty sure that some French guy had a whole theory about it and madeleines, though I can’t remember what it was exactly about, and bacon is much more common than madeleines anyway; which makes forgetting about that day all the more difficult. 

 

My phone buzzes again, and I stand up to go get it. I can’t ignore this forever: I’m seeing him in less than a week. I pick it up; there was water next to the sink, and I swear as I wipe it on my shirt. The last thing I need is a broken phone. Not that people text me, but still. 

 

Well, if you don’t count Tyler. 

 

He doesn’t usually text at all, but he seems to have beaten his record today. Five messages. The first one just says _Ryan?_ I hadn’t seen that one at first, but it was followed by _Can I talk to you?_ and I didn’t answer. I’m terrified of what he wants to say. I don’t know why. 

 

I don’t read his other messages, but a stab of guilt makes me text him back. 

 

_Come over._

 

I hit _Send_ and head to the living-slash-bedroom, discarding my plate on the table. I’ll wash it later. The old, beat-up couch seems inviting right now, especially since I slept nowhere near enough last night. I consider taking a nap on it but change my mind as I see the dog on it. Her belly is rising and falling regularly, and she looks so peaceful that I let her be. I have to wait for Tyler, now, anyway. 

 

El’s a small beagle, and there are times where I wonder how beagles could ever have been hunting dogs; she’s afraid of car horns, but will do anything for chocolate. I’ve heard it’s bad for them, but El’s been doing just fine. Sometimes I’m convinced that she understands every word I say. Sometimes it’s as if she’s the only living being on this Earth that loves me. Especially when I give her chocolate. 

 

I decide to start reading a random book that’s on the living room table when there’s a knock on the door. I glance at my phone. No new messages. So he decided to show up after all, wise guy. I would’ve been irate if he’d flooded me with messages and then not turned up. 

 

I walk to the front door and open it, ready to greet him, but decide against it as soon as I catch sight of his face. A pang of guilt shoots through me once again. 

 

He looks like shit. 

 

His dark brown hair is a mess, the habitual rings under his eyes emphasised by a dark grey that indicate he’s been crying. The t-shirt he has on is black, for once, and has an image of a flying saucer on the front, with white lettering beneath that I cannot bother to read. He’s wearing a hoodie over it. It looks oversized. He smiles weakly, and I let him in without a word. I don’t know what to say. 

 

He walks to the couch like a ghost and sits down next to El, who’s still sound asleep. Oblivious. I catch myself wishing I could trade places with her. I look around the flat, and realise how much of a mess it is now that someone other than me is here; there are at least three empty mugs on my desk, and a pile of books is serving as nightstand. I hope there’s no dirty underwear in sight. Not that Tyler really seems to care by this point, but still. 

 

“It’s been two years,” he breathes, and I turn to look at him. His eyes are dry, staring at a spot on the floor. “Two years since he’s gone.” 

 

I walk to the couch and crouch down in front of him. He’s still staring at nothing. 

 

“Ty—”

 

He shakes his head, and I see the tears glistening in his eyes now. 

 

“It’s all my fault,” he chokes out. “All my fault.” He shakes his head again, as if to get rid of the guilt that’s so obviously plaguing him, eating him from the inside out. His shoulders are shaking and he’s drawn his hands to his face, hiding from me. I don’t understand. What has he done? 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

I know it comes out as insensitive, but I don’t care. He doesn’t seem to, either. If I don’t know what’s going on, there’s no way I can help him. 

 

Sobs rack his body in waves, but he doesn’t answer, and El stirs in her sleep. I repeat my question, and suddenly he pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie violently, exposing his wrist. My heart contracts. 

Silver-white lines stretch from one side to the other, and there are so many that I can’t bear to look at them. 

 

“This!” he shouts, standing up, and I can’t help but wince. “This is why Josh’s gone, Ryan! This is why I’m alone, with— with liquid charcoal in my veins!” Tears are staining his face, and he breathes rapidly. He lets himself fall back into the couch, startling El awake. She grunts and hops off the couch. I say nothing. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he splutters out, hands twisting the fabric of his shirt. His whole body is shaking now. “I’m sorry, Ryan, I just— I’m—”

 

I put my hand on his shoulder gently, and it seems to appease him, somehow.

 

“It’s okay, Tyler. Just breathe,” I tempt, and it seems to work. He takes deep breaths and the shaking gets less violent, though his hands are still clutching the dark fabric and his sleeve is still up. I try not to look at it. I never knew. 

 

“It’s just that— It’s just that I can barely live knowing it’s my fault, you know? I think about him every day, and every day I have to carry on with the fact that I was the one who made it happen, Ryan, I’m the one who made the blood show, and I—”

 

“Wait, what? What do you mean by you're the one who made it happen?” 

 

Tyler looks up at me as if I’m an idiot. As if I really, really don't know shit. Maybe I don't. 

 

“If you cut your skin open on purpose, your soulmate dies,” he explains, taking short, sharp breaths, and something twists within me. “People used to do it to find out whether they’d met their soulmate, but I think we’ve— we’ve mutated so that we can’t know." He shrugs helplessly. "I don’t know.” 

 

Questions pop into my mind faster than I can even understand them. What if that’s what happened to me? What if that’s why my veins had turned black? I want to ask him all those questions, but he doesn’t have the answers. That much I know. 

 

“Okay,” I say instead. “Okay.” I don’t ask him why he did it. Don’t ask him anything. El’s fallen asleep on my bed now; I can hear the faint snoring. It’s funny how similar to Andy she can be at times. 

 

“Everything’s dimmer since,” he says in a near-whisper, “and I don’t know if it’s Placebo effect or anything, but—” He lets out a lifeless chuckle and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He’s pulled the sleeve back down, hiding both the dark and the light. I breathe out slowly. "Everything seems to be on mute, like someone's thrown a veil between me and the world, like— like I'm not really part of this whole thing" —he gestures at nothing and everything at the same time— "anymore." I nod. I'm trying to understand. I really am.

 

“I feel like I have to keep on living,” he goes on, voice still thick, proof of the sobs that were seizing him minutes earlier. “Because I owe him that much. Because I don’t deserve to go to him. Because I— I deserve the pain of living without him. Every day.” 

 

He sighs and I sit down next to him on my old couch. We stay quiet. I think about the ocean. 

 

Maybe some of them are to be explored. 

 


	4. Fallacy

We stay like this for a long time, bathed in silence and the fading afternoon light. At some point, Tyler curled up, his head on the back of the couch, eyelids shut. His breathing went from sharp, short breaths to deep and regular ones. I think he’s asleep. 

 

That’s when I finally allow myself to think about Josh, as if Tyler would’ve been reminded of the pain he’d just been through if his soulmate had popped up in my mind. 

 

I try to picture him, once again. Wonder if he deserved to go the way he did, whether dying by the hand of your soulmate is the best or worst way to go. How much Tyler must’ve suffered. I guess I understand why he looks exhausted all the time, now. Hating yourself makes it so much harder to focus on anything else; it takes up too much time, too much space. I feel sorry for him again. 

 

He looks so young, as everyone does when they’re asleep, and I realise I don’t know his age. We met what seems like centuries ago, but now he feels both like a stranger and a friend at once. Maybe I’ve kept him at a distance. Maybe it’s the other way around, I’m not sure: we’re both too engulfed in the harsh reality of our blood colour to be able to truly build a friendship. I think he’s too scared to lose again, so he stays alone, but if he keeps doing that, he’ll lose himself, too. Maybe that applies to me as well. I watch him, and he stirs slightly in his sleep, sighing. His left hand is under his head and I see a dot that looks a lot like a tattoo on it. I wonder what it is, because I’ve never noticed it before. The skin around it is a darker grey, as if he’d just gotten it done. 

 

I’ve never seen non-Ashens sporting tattoos, and I realise why now; piercing the skin with needles is probably considered intentionally trying to draw blood. The first person that tried to get a tattoo must’ve been badly surprised — maybe they wanted to get a tattoo representing their soulmate. Imagine how ironic that would be; getting your soulmate inked upon your skin forever and losing them in the process. 

 

That’d be something I’d do, wouldn’t it? 

 

_If they hadn’t died before, probably._

 

I push that thought out of my head. 

 

Instead, I picture Tyler, walking alone into the tattoo parlour, trying to ignore the people there who’re eyeing him curiously, wondering how he’d become an Ashen. Asking the tattoo artist to trace the rings around his arms. Wincing at the pain but refusing to take a break because _I deserve it_. 

 

He doesn’t. He tortures himself. I hope that someday, he’ll be happy, though I’m not sure an Ashen can ever truly be happy. We’ve lost our halves. We’re broken and incomplete, forever cracked. Just like the wall in my kitchen. 

 

El’s still asleep on my bed, and suddenly the silence hits me like a wave. I could be the only one alive, right now. Nothing exists but Tyler, El and me. My ears are ringing, and I close my eyes. Try to make my mind completely blank. Not to think of the thousands upon thousands of vessels that are carrying blood to my brain, keeping me alive. Black blood. I wonder what it looks like; whether I’d be made sick by the very sight of my life source. Probably. 

 

I feel Tyler move again, and I open my eyes. He’s awake, looking around the small apartment as if he has no idea what he’s doing here. His eyes land on El, who’s still sleeping peacefully next to my pillow, then on me, and they’re dark brown, bloodshot, capillaries a small web of light grey. 

 

He pulls on his black shirt once again and I catch another glimpse of the darkened patch of skin on his hand. One dot, followed by three dashes. Morse. The boy scout I never was stomps his feet in me.

 

The second dash looks crooked, as if the tattoo artist’s hand slipped while inking it. Tyler stands up and sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He knows I was staring, so I shift my gaze to the floor, where a pair of mismatched socks lay discarded. I really should clean up someday.  

 

“I— I should go,” he says, looking at the front door. I hesitate for a second. I shouldn’t let him be by himself when he’s like this. God knows what he’d do. The silver-white scars flash before my eyes and I try not to think about it. 

 

“Only if you promise you’ll be okay,” I say, and curse at myself silently. Since when did I become a mother hen? It’s the last thing he needs.

 

Tyler smiles weakly and rubs his eyes. 

 

“I just had a power nap in your couch after breaking down in front of you, Ryan, what makes you think I won’t be okay?” 

 

I chuckle, and he pulls on the collar of the black shirt again, as if it was suffocating him. I catch a glimpse of the white lettering beneath. It says “I want to believe” in bold, block letters. It seems like life’s full of small, ironic details like these. 

 

As if people like us could believe in anything. 

 

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself.” 

 

He huffs at that, as if it didn’t matter. Shrugs. Glances down at where his hands disappear in his pockets.

 

“Sure.” 

 

I can’t tell if he’s honest, and his eyes are looking straight at me, almost daring. I say nothing.

 

He leaves soon after with a promise of texting me when he gets home, and I look up “morse alphabet.” 

 

One dot, three dashes. 

 

∙ ———

 

My eyes skim the picture I’ve found, trying to find the matching pattern. I don’t have to go far. 

 

 

It’s the tenth letter. 

 

 

J.

 

***

 

 

I wish I could read minds. 

 

We’re back in the same room, with the same dying plant and the same incessant, self-centred chatting, and I can’t help but look at Brendon. He looks nonplussed, absent-mindedly chewing on the end of his pen, casting a glance this way from time to time. I’m just trying to act as if I don’t notice every time he does. I wonder if he thinks he’s inconspicuous. Idiot. I smile down to my knees as he turns his head this way again. My stomach’s doing weird flips that I’m not sure are entirely normal. 

 

Fuck. He’s smiling too. 

 

I’d love what to know what’s going on in his mind. Whether he finds Ashley as obnoxious as I do. Whether he thinks the ceiling light is too bright for a Tuesday morning, whether he’ll find his soulmate soon. Whether he thinks I’m as obvious as he is. Whether he likes dogs better than cats. 

 

I do. Cats are sneaky little fuckers, too proud to show any sort of affection. Dogs aren’t like that. Dogs shower you with love, make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world. Like you matter. And I feel like he deserves to feel like he matters as he asks Ashley a question that I barely hear. His lips are a dark shade of pink and his hair falls over one of his eyebrows. Ashley beams at him as if he’d just found the cure for cancer or something. Nope. Just gave her attention. 

 

“We’ve been together for five years, now,” she says, waving her hand around so that everyone sees her wedding ring. I look at Pete. He’s wearing a black hoodie today, but still made sure to put his ringed-hand on the table. I don’t know how Patrick stands him. Brendon nods, listening with what seems like rapt attention. 

 

Either he’s a _really_ good actor, or he’s just dumb. 

 

I can’t decide which I like best. 

 

My stomach knotted this morning as well, right as I arrived in front of the closed door. I was late, just like he was exactly a week ago; I didn’t barge in, though. Took a couple of deep breaths before turning the doorknob, knowing exactly what to expect. Five pairs of eyes, scattered around the room, turning automatically to the source of the disturbance, like white blood cells amassing to where the wound is. I am the wound. I am a thousand nerves, all tangled together as soon as he lays his eyes on me, like his gaze is the electric signal making my brain work unusual ways. 

 

Like thinking how his lips feel like. 

 

I’ve never been kissed before. Never had the chance to. 

 

Girls and boys weren’t exactly rushing to kiss grey-veined guys; all were too busy having the time of their lives getting drunk and kissing each other. I had made up my mind right then and there, staring at the spidery web beneath my skin: I’d never get kissed, and that would be okay. 

 

But he smiled at me as I walked in and irrational thoughts crawled into my head before I could prevent them from doing so. I imagined what his lips would feel as I sat down. Thought about his hands in my hair. Whether his would be soft. 

 

It’s twisted, really. I’ve been thinking about someone I cannot have. Someone who’s already promised to a stranger. Someone so beautiful with his big, brown eyes and fucked up hair. 

 

Ashley shoots me a dark look. She was saying something about her husband. I think his name is Andy, too, but I can’t remember for sure. Not that it matters. He smiled at me, and Ashley is just a fucked up white blood cell. 

 

I’d like to hear what he has to say. This thought will not leave me, and Andy (the one next to me, not Ashley’s husband) is trying his damnedest not to fall asleep once again. He’d probably get hit in the face by a notebook by Annoying Leucocyte — what I've rebaptised Ashley. Not that she looks like one. 

 

Hey, maybe those are even her initials. A.L. 

 

I wonder what her last name is. Laney. Lewis. If I listened to her rants, I’d probably know by now. 

 

Tyler’s looking tired and sad, though I was glad to see that he’s changed out of his black t-shirt and hoodie. He gave me a small smile while sitting down; I don’t bring anything up, and he doesn't try to apologise or explain. There is no need for words, and I’ll keep my mouth shut as long as he deems it necessary. I don’t know if that’s because we’re both Ashens, or because we’re both a few shades of fucked up. 

 

The morse tattoo is still on his hand, but the initial greyness has faded now. I can tell his pain hasn’t. 

 

***

Brendon’s lingering in a corner as everyone leaves, pretending to examine the half-dead plant in the corner. My heart’s racing as I take my time to pack up the few sheets of papers I’d taken out extra casually —not that I wanted Pete to believe I’d take notes, but to make Brendon look less alone in his attempts to become Pete’s biographer— and fold them neatly before stuffing them in my backpack. It was tough to find this fucking backpack. Had to turn half of my closet inside out. It’s grey and has some black marker scribbles on the side of it. I can’t remember where that’s from. 

 

I stare at Brendon’s back when I’m done; he’s wearing a grey t-shirt over black jeans, and I try to think of something witty to say to get him to turn around. 

 

“Pretty dead, huh?” 

 

So witty. Let me walk right out of this room and go bang my head against a brick wall somewhere. 

 

But, for some fucking reason known only to God or whoever’s up there, he turns around, eyes rounded in surprised pretence, and I motion to the plant while satisfaction replaces anxiety in my chest. I was wrong. 

 

He’s a _terrible_ actor. Probably worse than me. And I’m about a hundred percent sure he can hear my frantic heart. Pumping more black blood into my veins, bringing it to my lungs, my brain. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s not like we’ve never talked before.  

 

“Oh,” he says, as if he hadn’t noticed there was a plant there. He glances at it before looking back at me. “Yeah, doesn’t look that good.” 

 

No shit, Sherlock. It’s brown. It’s decaying. I think I am, too. 

 

He goes to touch a leaf, which detaches from the branch as soon as his fingers come in contact with it, and he stands there, the brownish leaf in his hand. I’d laugh if my heart wasn't racing like it is. It feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest any second, and the left side of my brain is trying to reason with me. 

 

This shouldn’t be happening, should it? It’s not possible. My soulmate died six years ago. This must be Nature making a mistake. But Nature doesn’t make mistakes. 

 

So what is this?

 

Brendon takes a deep breath and lets the leaf fall to the ground. I stare at it so I don’t have to look him in the eye. I might just do something stupid if I do. 

 

“Look—” he says, and I want to tell him that it’s exactly what I’m trying _not_ to do. I’m not even sure what colour his eyes are. Maybe they’re not really brown. Maybe I should check. I lift my head and find myself proved wrong. They're a warm shade of brown, like melted chocolate. “I just wanted to ask—”

 

His sentences don’t have an end. They’re just hanging there, like half-finished paintings; I’m sure they can be masterpieces if he’d just deign finish them. He sounds like he’d be one to craft masterpieces. 

 

“I’ve got coffee at home,” he says finally, and it’s almost funny. That boy sure knows how to create an anticlimax.  “You can come have some if you want— I saw the machine’s still out of order.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, fingers restlessly twisting a thread that’s come loose. 

 

Oh, yeah. I think I cursed a bit too loud this morning. Maybe that was how they knew I was arriving. 

 

 “Yeah,” I say, though we both know there’s a coffee shop right next to this building, and I have coffee at home, too. I nod. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

 

He smiles at me, and we walk out the door, together. 

 

I’m not sure how my brain hasn’t exploded from all the blood pumped into it yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the [ficlet from tyler's point of view](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10883127) is up! i hope you enjoy :)


	5. Sweet Faux Pas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tyler's ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10883127) has been posted!!

I lean on the kitchen counter as he makes the coffee. He only has instant, but I don’t feel the slightest bit cheated, because I can tell he’s nervous. His hand is fidgeting slightly and he doesn’t seem to be able to stay still, constantly running a hand through his hair.

 

I don’t know how I feel about this. 

 

Actually, fuck that. I know how I feel. I just don’t think I _should_ be feeling that. Maybe I’m fucked up. Maybe he’s fucked up. 

 

The hot water pours into the cup he’s taken from a cupboard on the wall, steam rising to the ceiling in a steady stream. I wonder why he doesn't make himself any, but then again I’m sure very few people have coffee instead of lunch. He doesn’t start making food, though. 

 

Maybe he’s debating whether he can touch my skin without dying or not. I’ve heard rumours like that in high school, whispers in hallways that promised a painful, poisonous death if you dared to touch skin that wasn’t irrigated by regular blood. It had seemed so ridiculous at the time, already, but back then I was still letting myself get hurt. Winced at every dirty look I got, stayed silent at the harsh words often thrown my way. 

 

It occurs to me that he might be nervous because he wants the same thing as I do, but I push that thought away as he offers me the steaming cup. I can’t afford to think that of someone like him. Our hands brush, and he doesn’t look at my face. Electricity courses through my veins and I smile, though he can’t see it. Stupid, kind, shy boy. 

 

I’m finding more and more adjectives to describe him now. 

 

I look at the small clock on the wall. It’s 12:30, but I’m not hungry. He motions me out of the kitchen and into the living room, which isn’t like mine — his is a real one, without a bed in the middle or dirty laundry everywhere. There are books, though. I think I spot _1984_. Nerd. The walls are painted a light shade of blue, and there’s a bookshelf lining one of the walls. It’s half empty. 

 

He doesn’t tell me where to go, so I sit down on the couch that looks suspiciously like mine. Maybe all twenty-or-so year olds have a shitty old couch at home. Maybe it’s just us. He sits next to me, our shoulders touching. 

 

This is oddly similar to sitting next to Tyler, in my apartment, but the tension here is undeniable. I set my cup down on the floor, untouched, then sit back up and turn to look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, through the window that’s on the other side of the room. He knows I’m looking. 

 

The question’s burning my tongue, and I don’t want to ask. I have to. 

 

“Why’d you bring me here?” 

 

I know I sound horribly narcissistic, and I hate it. He says nothing, and I curse silently. I shouldn’t have asked. He cocks his head, eyes still fixed on something that I can’t see. For a second, I’m afraid he’ll turn to me and say “Well, for coffee. Obviously.” 

 

But he doesn’t.

 

“Well,” he says instead, looking down at his hands, which are folded in his lap like a well-behaved child. “Why did you come?” 

 

I don’t know what to answer. I don’t know myself. Why I thought it was a good idea to follow him home like a lost puppy; I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake. I can get coffee myself. Besides, being here is a terrible idea. Terrible, because nothing can happen. He has transparent blood. He has his whole life in front of him, what seems like a thousand million years to be happy with the person that will make him complete. 

 

But suddenly his lips are hovering an inch from mine and I’m trying to breathe normally. My heart seems to freeze in my chest, apparently aware that now is the _least_ convenient moment to do so; I can feel his breath and our noses bump. He’s so close, his lips look so soft. But I can’t do this. I’m an Ashen. I can’t have this. This is not who I am; I pull back slightly and he looks at me, brown eyes a mix of desperation and confusion. 

 

“Bren—”  I need to make him understand, because he doesn’t seem to himself. My soulmate is dead. He has yet to meet his. I can’t take that away from him. I’m not selfish enough to steal him from the person that’ll make him happy. 

 

But, most of all, I can’t let myself have a taste of him. If I do, I’ll be miserable. I can’t.

 

“I’m not your soulmate.”

 

I’m not selfish. I’m doing something noble.

 

But why does it feel so wrong?

 

“Ryan, I know,” he breathes, and my heart rate picks up slightly at the sound of his voice saying my name. I don’t think he’s pronounced it before. “But I don’t know them yet. I’ve got a whole lifetime to spend with my soulmate, so why should I deprive myself from happiness right now?”

 

I shake my head and stare at my hands, limp in my lap. I’m willing them not to move, to touch his cheek or do something worse. Brendon sighs, as if he’s giving up, and I look at him. His eyes are now fixed on me; something in them tells me he’s thinking the exact opposite; he looks like a predator of some sort.

 

And I’m the prey.

 

He speaks again.

 

“Why should you deprive _yourself_ from happiness?”  

 

And I know what I should tell him: that Ashens can’t be happy, that there’s no way he’ll find any happiness in me. With me. My skin and bones and other vessels aren’t natural;  we’re depraved, we’re a ship that’s already sunk to the bottom of the ocean, all hope of survival shattered. We’re barely alive. 

 

But these thoughts and words get lost somewhere between my breath and his as our mouths crash together and it’s nothing like I’ve felt before; heat rolls off him in waves, and my hands find themselves secured on the back of his neck, his holding my head as if he’s scared I’ll pull away again. I know I won’t. He got me. His mouth is demanding on mine, tongue slipping in, wet and hot, exploring. I hadn’t thought it’d be like this. I hadn’t thought there’d be a moment like this. I kiss him back, not thinking about my lack of experience, how the odds are against me at all times. I kiss him with all I have; all the energy I have left. I kiss him like I won’t again and I try to remember what it feels like; kissing someone that seems to want me as much as I want them. He shifts to straddle me and my hands run the length of his back, feeling the spine beneath his grey t-shirt and he lets out a small moan that I cannot process properly. He sounds so fucking hot. He slips a hand up my shirt and I can’t help but gasp because no one has ever been this close since that day six years ago. I’ve never let anyone this close. But Brendon feels like he already knows everything, like I’ll never be able to hide anything from him. His fingers graze the skin of my stomach and I work up the courage to do the same thing, our lips still locked together. The skin beneath his shirt is warm and soft, and suddenly I have the urge to see him. See all of him. 

 

It’s almost as if he can hear me think because he pulls back and our mouths part with a wet noise, and my lips tingle from his kisses. I want more. I need more. He pulls off his shirt and doesn’t give me time to look, pressing his bare chest right back against me, and my back is the furthest it can go in the cushions of the sofa. His hands are on both sides of my face and he kisses me ferociously, dark hair falling into his eyes. My hands wander down to the waistband of his jeans and he gasps when I slip a finger between the fabric and the flesh. I hesitate; I don’t know what I’m doing.  

 

“Keep going,” he pants in between kisses, but I must miss my cue because soon his hands leave my face to work on the button of his jeans. It pops open and I try to control my breathing. His erection is obvious, lining his left thigh. He tugs on my shirt, eyes bright. I know what he wants.

 

I just don’t know if I can do it. 

 

“The veins—” I start, but he shakes his head and cuts me off. 

 

“I don’t care,” he says, lifting the bottom of my shirt up slightly. He sounds desperate.  “I want to see you.” He echoes my thoughts. But, instead of doing what he asks me to, I tilt my head back and capture his lips in a slow kiss, and he groans, one hand tugging on my shirt softly. I can’t take it off; I can’t let him see this; the grey veins running along my sides, twisting into a knot where my heart is. 

 

But God knows I want to. I want every inch of him right this instant, I want to feel his skin bare against mine and his heart beating, proof of how alive he is. Maybe he even has enough life in him for both of us.  

 

I run my hand along the back of his shoulders as he kisses me again, and I try not to think of the undone button sitting right beneath his navel. It’d be so easy.  Shift. Pull. But, once again, as if he’s reading my mind, he reaches down to cup me and my breathing hitches. His hand on me feels so fucking good, even through the fabric, even if my head is too full of worries. But all of these vanish and all I can think of is his hand on me and his wicked smile against my mouth, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I bite on his full lower lip gently and his hands move faster, across my shoulders and my neck and my thighs, suddenly animated by a primal instinct that seeps into me. My hand goes to his crotch and he lets out a moan as I feel the throbbing through the rough fabric. His hands tangle in my hair and pull on it gently, his mouth next to my ear, taking quick, sharp breaths. 

 

We’re chest to chest, his knees on either sides of my hips, and we kiss like we’re starving, like he’ll find his soulmate tomorrow and forget about this. 

 

Shit. 

 

Maybe he will. 

 

I pull back and he looks at me, frowning slightly, and takes his hand back from under my shirt where it had snuck into.

 

I look at him, his brown eyes, his reddened, swollen lips and messy hair, and I realise. Or, rather, I remember. Why I was determined not to do this, not to let myself go.  

 

He’ll find his soulmate. He’ll experience better than this. 

 

I won’t. 

 

I’ll stay exactly how I am and so will the blood in my veins, running the miles and miles of webbing but never getting to change colour again. 

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, lifting a leg to sit back on the couch but keeping a hand on my shoulder. It’s done. It’s over. 

 

But I can’t tell him that, can I? 

 

I stand up and his hand falls limply on the couch. I tug my t-shirt down even though gravity had already done the job. I feel exposed. Naked, even though he’s the one with no shirt and a button undone. 

 

“I— I need to go,” I say, and I don’t dare look him in the eye. Again. It’s for a different reason, now, though. I feel my shame inside me like a knife, sinking into my guts every time I think of kissing him again. He looks down, dark hair hiding his eyes and I am reminded of the first time we met, how shy he seemed in the badly lit classroom. 

 

This is so wrong. 

 

He doesn’t say a word as I walk to the door and open it, leaving the untouched coffee cup at the bottom of the couch. 

 

The door closes between us. 

 

I'm such a fucking idiot. 


	6. Easier Said Than Done

I wonder how long a goldfish’s memory lasts. 

 

I remember reading somewhere that it was eight seconds, though now I’m not sure whether it’s the attention span or the memory, specifically. Probably the former. 

 

Either way, I wish I was a goldfish. Just so I could forget the taste of him. His warmth, his smell, the small, desperate moans he let out as I kissed him. As I broke my promise to myself. 

 

I don’t want to remember that. 

 

I don’t want to be on my deathbed and, as I draw my last breath, remember everything I couldn’t have, everything that taunts me through the pair of warm brown eyes flooded with confusion. I can’t tell if I’ve hurt him. His pride, maybe. Rejection is always a tough blow, and I have a feeling that he holds on to his pride more than the average person. 

 

That’s probably why he doesn’t come to class. Thank God. I stare at his empty spot as Pete says something about newcomers, and something nags at me. He’s already been replaced. I don’t know if he’ll come back. Tyler sits down next to me and Andy hasn’t arrived yet. I wonder what happened to him; he’s never late. 

 

I tear my gaze from the empty chair on the other side of the table and focus on the two people that just walked in. One guy, one girl. They both seem slightly older than Tyler and I, but they’re happy. I can tell. It radiates off of them in waves. I have yet to decide whether they make me wantto throw up. Their arms are linked, and their hair colour seems to match. Soulmates. The guy smiles at Pete and tells him something in a low voice as his girlfriend —I look down at her hand. Ringed. Wife, not girlfriend— looks around the classroom with a small smile on her lips. She has red lipstick on. Her eyes focus on each person in turn, Ashley, Tyler, then me. They’re light in colour, but I can’t tell whether they’re blue or grey. I expect her to flinch when she takes in Tyler and I, but she doesn’t. Her eyes stay steady and she even smiles a bit. It’s not a pitiful smile. 

 

I decide that I like her. 

 

Her husband is still talking to Pete, and their arms aren’t linked anymore. She sits down in Brendon’s usual spot — my heart contracts at that thought. He doesn’t _have_ an usual spot. He’s been here a grand total of two times. He can be wiped away, and a stranger in a chair is the start of that process.

 

Right? 

 

Her bangs fall over her eyes in a way that I can’t help but to associate with the dark haired boy from two weeks prior. She looks up at her husband, who’s finally finished talking to Pete. He walks over and puts a hand on her shoulder, familiarly, instinctively. As if he feels like he has to protect her from this new environment, these new people. I’m pretty sure they already knew Pete, though. 

 

“This is Dallon and Breezy,” Pete says in a voice that suggests he thinks he’s the boss here, just because he introduces new people. Ashley nods and goes back to texting someone who’s obviously more interesting than the rest of us. Tyler forces a small smile and I look at the tall guy, whose eyes are a similar colour to those of his wife. “They’re here for one session, just to check things out.” That makes sense. I don’t really see what a couple would be doing at a public speakingclass. Maybe Pete begged them to come so he could show off his status of fiancé more. It’s true that we’re not really responsive to that fact anymore; even Ashley seems bored. 

 

Maybe they’re in need of couple therapy. Does that even happen with soulmates? 

 

“Hi, I’m Dallon,” the tall guy says, taking his hand off his wife’s shoulder and running it through his hair. I notice he has bags under his eyes. Maybe he works a tough job. Maybe they have kids. “And this is Breezy,” he adds, repeating what Pete has just said, but it seems like he’s challenging Pete a little bit. He’s his own man. Breezy smiles and nods, red lips pressed together. She hasn’t spoken yet. Maybe she’s mute. Dallon pulls a chair out and sits down next to his wife; Ashley is still intently staring at her phone. Pete’s still standing up, waiting for everyone to settle down to start his speech once again. I can’t remember when his wedding is. Not that it matters; I doubt I’m invited. Dallon leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, casting a glance at his wife. She’s not looking at him, eyes focused on Pete. She’s wearing dangling earrings and her nails are painted dark red; it’s almost funny how different to Ashley she is. Ashley thrives on bright colours and attention while Breezy seems more quiet, listening. She seems happy, though. Happiness must come in different forms, express itself in various ways in different people. I guess everyone who found their soulmate is happy. Ashley finally looks up, and seems to realise that someone’s missing. 

 

“Where’s the barista guy?” 

 

Contempt lashes at my insides. She has no idea, with her perfect little life and her heels and cats, with her red blood and husband. Brendon’s so much more than a barista. He’s… God, he’s so many things at once, and it’s hard to believe that I’ve only known him for two weeks. I look down at my rolled up sleeves, exposing the grey veins underneath. It’s too hot in here, but I pull them back down. They’re painful reminders of the past week, and I don’t want to think about it. Pete looks at Ashley, concealed surprise on his face. We all think Ashley doesn’t care, doesn’t notice, but apparently she does. Maybe it’s because he’s hot. I wonder what she’d think if she knew I’ve kissed him. 

 

Fuck, I’ve kissed him. 

 

I press my lips together as if to keep the memory of his taste out. I focus on the cactus. It’s not dead, yet. Still here despite the fucking rollercoaster of regret and anger I’ve gone through the past week. The world keeps spinning even if nothing really makes sense anymore.

 

“He texted that he can’t make it,” Pete says. “And so did Andy.” 

 

Ashley frowns slightly at the mention of Andy, as if she doesn’t know who he is, and the slight sympathy I felt for her seconds before vanishes completely. She’s a self-centred bitch. She throws her hair back and resumes her frantic tapping on the screen of her phone. I can hear her nails against the glass from here. It’s irritating. 

 

So Brendon can’t make it. I wonder if it’s just today, or if it’s a lame excuse to never have to come back again. Either way, that’s good. I shouldn’t be the one running away. I’m the wiser one. I know what I can and can’t do. He clearly doesn’t. He’s childish, transparent-blooded and horny. That’s just it. 

 

I notice Breezy looking at Dallon, her hand on his. I can tell he’s listening to Pete, though I can’t imagine why. He’s aware of his wife’s touch. It looks so familiar, so natural. Something that is proof of years spent together, something I’ll never have. My guts twist, and Breezy looks at me. I still can’t tell what colour her eyes are. She’s difficult to read. 

 

I feel a hand on my arm, and turn to see Tyler. He looks better, as if his pain eases as time passes. I didn’t know him last year, but something tells me that it’s a periodic thing. This time of year is always tough for him. Maybe Josh’s death isn’t the only reason. 

 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and the genuine concern in his voice touches me. He might be the only person to really get me, even if we don’t know each other. Ashens stick together; that’s what I’ve learned, but I don’t want to tell him about Brendon. Tyler might just tell me I was right to push him away. 

 

“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I’m good.” I don’t look at him; I’ve been told I’m not a good liar. I can imagine him nodding, not believing a word. Maybe he already knows, but he doesn’t say anything and I’m thankful for that. 

 

I don’t ask him the same question back because I’m still afraid of how truthful he might be. I might be disappointing him. 

 

Pete keeps going, and at some point during the session, Dallon’s asked to speak. I think he explains how Breezy and him met through a mutual friend. It almost seems like the go-to conversation for red-blooded people is the way they met their soulmate. 

 

 

Tyler leaves early; he doesn’t explain why, just pats my back as he stands up and walks out of the room, the door closing behind him. Dallon casts a confused glance at Pete, and then at me when Pete doesn’t react. I shrug. We don’t ask questions, especially not about Tyler. The others know that. 

 

I pack up my stuff at the end of the session. My stomach’s letting out noises informing me that food would be appreciated, but home’s still at least half an hour away. 

 

“Hey,” a voice says, and I look up to see Breezy. Huh. Not mute. Dallon’s talking to Pete near the door, and I’m not sure why she came over. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail now. I nod; can’t think of what to say. She doesn’t seem thrown off by my lack of answer.

 

“Are you okay?” 

 

Second time I’m asked this today, and the answer stays the same. I don’t know her, and there’s no way I’m going to share anything, so I shrug. Hope that she’s not here for a speed-therapy session and that she’ll leave me alone.

 

“ ‘M fine.” I don’t look at her and consciously untangle my earphones from the mess they’d become in my jacket pocket. Maybe I was wrong to like her. At least Ashley leaves me alone. 

 

“You’re not.” 

 

That makes me look up at her, and I finally notice that her eyes are a very light blue, almost grey. She stares back, right into my eyes and something tells me that there’s no escaping. I don’t want to tell this stranger anything, but it feels as if the words are fighting to come out of my mouth now, as if she’s drawing them out with the metallic blue of her irises.

 

“You don’t know me,” I counter. One last try. If she asks again, I know I’ll break. I know I’ll tell her. Hopefully she’ll see the pleading I’m trying to show in my eyes and leave me be. I don’t want to bring him up. 

 

“I don’t need to know you to see there’s something wrong,” she insists, and I glance at Dallon. Pray he’ll come over and tell her they're leaving, but he’s obviously still in deep conversation with Pete, who’s gesturing energetically. Pete’s always been a man of many words and even more hand gestures. 

 

I sigh. Roll up my sleeve for her to see. I expect her to jerk back, to gasp. Few non-Ashens have actually seen black veins up close; it’s not exactly something we show, not something we’re proud of. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even look down at my forearm. 

 

“Look,” she says, “if you’re unhappy and there’s something you can do about it, do. It doesn’t matter if your blood is black. It’s all up to you.”

 

I look at her, incredulous. I want to tell her there's nothing I can do, that I'll probably never see the boy I want again, because he'll fall in love with someone else. I want to tell her to fuck off, because she has it so much better than me and she doesn't even know it. 

 

“Breezy?” Dallon calls from across the room. Couldn’t he have done that just three minutes earlier? 

 

“Easy for you to say,” I say drily, and she shakes her head before walking back to her husband, who glances at me before guiding her out the door. It slams shut behind them, leaving Ashley, Pete and me. I look at them and walk towards the door. 

 

Everything always seems so easy to them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make sure to check out [dallon's ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11349171) too!


	7. Eight Digits

There’s something wrong about cemeteries in broad daylight; something unsettling about all those stones in line, like soldiers waiting beneath the scorching sun. Except that they’re not waiting for anything. They’re dead. They’re bodies stripped of their souls and soulmates, bare of any conscience and desires. The latter makes me wish I was more like them, sometimes. 

 

And yet I’m here, staring at the names etched into the different rocks, walking past rows and rows of dead bodies packed in wooden boxes. I wonder what my name would look like carved into stone like that. Wonder if my soulmate’s body is beneath the earth or has been reduced to ashes a long time ago, and where they are now. It seems a bit surreal that they’d be somewhere on Earth, still. Not breathing but being one with Nature again. A large headstone catches my eye. 

 

_MICHAEL D. COOPER_

_1922-1997_

 

Huh. This guy’s been here for a while. Some part of me hopes he was like me. Black blooded, unwanted, but the headstone is clean of any moss despite it having been here for ten years already; that can only mean that someone’s taking care of it. Someone with blood turned black by his disappearance. I do the math in my head; the guy was about 75 when he died. Soulmates never have more than six years of age difference, so his soulmate must be somewhere around that too.

 

Maybe he had a loving wife who made him pancakes every Saturday morning. Maybe she still does, every week, before coming to scrub the moss off of his headstone. I can picture her wrinkled, grey-veined hands, working to keep Nature from stealing her soulmate once again. She makes sure his name is clean so she can remember it even if she’s starting to lose her memory. Undying love. 

 

A life flashes before my eyes, a dark haired boy laughing in a small but sunny kitchen, a ring encompassing his finger, reflecting the light. The same boy fast asleep on a couch, our couch, a small dog curled up next to him. Our bed, unmade, smelling of him even if he leaves early every morning. The ringing in my ears gets worse. This is a life I’ll never have. 

 

The tombstone next to Michael’s is, ironically, covered in moss. The name is impossible to read; the person beneath the earth here hasn’t been cared for, unlike his neighbour. Then, something strikes me. 

 

Somewhere, there’s another grave that’s drowning in green, all because I’m not there to keep it off. Someone that didn’t have time to need me in life, that I’m still letting down in death. I launch forward, pick up a small wooden stick and start trying to remove the moss from over the headstone next to Michael’s, kneeling in the dirt. Is six years of carelessness enough for a name to be hidden by moss? Bits of dirt come off along with the green, and the stick snaps in two. Fuck that. I throw it aside and use my hands instead; I can soon feel the dirt under my nails, but the name finally appears, like a ray of sun peeking through clouds. Except that the sun is a dead person’s name. 

 

_JESSICA STONE_

_1955-1999_

That’s not it. She’s not it; the dates don’t fit. I need to find the dates that fit so I can make it up to them, to show them I care even if they can’t ever see it. I get up and my pants are wet and stained at the knees from the humid earth, but I don't really have time to care. I stumble to the next moss-covered grave and get to work. I wipe my hand over my cheek and it comes away wet. Fuck, am I crying? I can’t be. 

 

I need to move on. I need to fucking move on. 

 

But my hands certainly aren’t of that opinion; they’re tearing the soft moss off of the cold stone almost frantically, hoping to find some kind of answer beneath it. The letters soon show, along with the eight numbers, which are not ones I’m looking for. Fifteenth of March two thousand and one. That’s when it happened. That’s the macabre string of numbers I’m looking for, all of them odd except the two. I focus on the engraved letters. This one’s called Benjamin; died in 1986. I wonder if it’s the day I was born and how many people have died so I could live, for the Earth to keep its balance, its equilibrium. Maybe ol’ Ben here was one of them. 

 

I manage to learn the names of two more dead before my nails are torn bloody, and I give up. There’s no fucking point in this. Thousands upon thousands of people are buried in this cemetery only, and God knows my soulmate was even from here. It’s completely pointless. And yet. And yet there’s this stupid fucking flicker of hope in my chest that I can’t get rid of, this ridiculous nagging that says, hey, maybe this isn't all over yet. Maybe it isn’t over. Maybe I can find my peace of mind along with the dead body I was supposed to love. 

 

I turn and rest my back against the headstone, stopping to catch my breath. The sun’s disappeared behind clouds and suddenly I’m cold, as if the ghosts haunting this cemetery finally realised there’s someone disrespecting their resting place. It is over. 

 

I’ll never find this person I was destined for, never taste their lips or call their name, never have children. Not that I want children, but I’ve learned that there’s a huge difference between being unable to and not wanting to. One suggests powerlessness, acceptance of the fate that falls upon you. The other leaves a choice. I’ve never had a choice. I curl my hands into fists; my fingers are sore and stiff, my palms caked with dirt. I must look like a lunatic. Hopefully no one’s had the same idea as me, hopefully no one else is in this cemetery. A woman’s voice fills my head, repeating words I have heard before. 

 

_It’s all up to you_. 

 

Breezy. 

 

I scoff, staring up at a cloud. What the fuck does she know? All she is is happy. She doesn’t have a fucking clue as to what it feels like to be unwanted, to know that there’s no place for you in the world that was so masterfully crafted by natural selection, or by whoever came up with this soulmate bullshit. The cloud looks like nothing in particular. Do some people believe in destiny predicted by clouds? I sure don’t. Angels and fate, those don’t exist. If there was any justice in this world at all, maybe I would’ve at least found that fucking grave. To reassure myself that the blood in my veins has reason to be. 

 

Maybe I would’ve cried. I don’t know. 


	8. Oddity

There is no rain.

 

Clouds, but no rain. The prediction without the action, the pain without the tears. LA is always rainless in September. I don’t know what I was thinking. 

 

I keep my eyes closed and try to focus on my breathing, on the regular expand-shrink motion of my chest. Let the silence take over my senses, my mind, let it envelop every neuron, break the connections between them. I don’t want to think.

 

I can hear the blood pulse through my head. I hated it as a kid, when I laid my head down on the pillow, hearing the thump-thump of my heart, the blood brought to my brain, proof that I was alive. I guess I was afraid of hearing it stop. 

 

I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t care if it stops. I don’t care how many heartbeats are separating me from my reunion with them, how many breaths I’ll take until air will be needless to my lungs. The person I’m supposed to want is dead, and the one I can’t have is alive. Speak of fucking irony. 

 

Maybe I should go home. Say goodbye to all those corpses and go to sleep, so I don’t have to think about what they’re whispering about me. The guy who came to search for a lost loved one. A lost stranger. The lost fucking boy wandering between the graves, tearing his nails off on cold, loveless stone. 

 

The world tilts sideways when I get up, so I reach out to a headstone to stabilise myself, though I have no wish to touch any grave ever again.

 

Something makes a noise behind me. 

 

“Jesus, what—”

 

It’s a dog. A stray, by the looks of it. It’s looking up at me with huge eyes as I try to figure out what breed it is, but I can’t. Probably a mongrel. Black and white and scruffy as hell. 

 

I think of El at home, comfortably dozing off on my pillows, and this dog here, probably wandering the streets of LA in hopes of finding something to eat. They’re the same, but they’re so fucking different. They’re variations on the same theme, two extremes that never should cross. 

 

Like black and clear. 

 

 

Like him and me. 

 

 

It’s wagging its tail now. Stupid fucking adorable dog. I sink back onto the ground, stretching my hand out and it —he— takes a hesitant step forward, as if to see if I’m about to stone him or something. 

 

“I’m not gonna hurt you, buddy,” I say, making my voice be as steady as I can; not that the dog’ll hear the difference, but hearing my own broken sounds makes it worse somehow. He takes another tentative step, and sniffs my hand, probably in search of some remnants of food. 

 

“It’s just you and I, huh?” I say, one hand still stretched out, the other one searching my jacket pockets for anything I could give him. He spends his life looking for food that’ll keep him alive long enough until he’s hungry again. He’s living to exist. 

 

There’s nothing in my pockets, but I reach out to pet him and he recoils, as if he was scared I’d throw a punch at him. My attempts at smiling clearly aren’t working, so I draw my hand back and look at him. 

 

He looks back, brown eyes searching my face and nose twitching slightly. Intelligence shines in his eyes and yet he’s here, with me, in the middle of a cemetery at dusk and not somewhere in the warmth of someone’s home. 

 

I let myself sit back on the ground and make another attempt to reach him, carefully this time. He doesn’t move. I scratch his head and his tail wags ever-so-slightly. I smile. 

 

Some part of me is yelling to take him home and give him a bath and a family — or whatever El and I are — but I can’t afford to. What little money this fucked-up government gives Ashens is barely enough for El and me. I could get a part-time job, but no one wants their cashier or mail boy or bartender to be someone with black blood. Once again, the underlying resentment most people feel shows through the little things. 

 

The dog’s licking my hand now and I want to apologise to him. To him and everyone I’ve disrespected today, alive or dead. 

 

I’m so tired. 

 

_I’m sorry I can’t bring you home. I’m sorry._

 

 

He doesn’t seem to hear me. 

 

 

I don’t have the strength to bring him to a shelter either, so I stand back up. I have a headache. The dog looks up at me, tail still wagging. I shake my head at him, hoping he’ll understand.

 

He doesn’t. 

 

The distance between where I was and the cemetery gates seems much longer than I remember. I never thought leaving a cemetery would be that tough. 

 

The dog doesn’t follow me. 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

He opens the door and I chuckle because I got it right. It was the right door. His eyebrows lift as he sees me and I can’t tell whether he’s happy, surprised or angry, but that’s probably because I can’t focus on anything else other than his lips right now. I’m not sure how I got here, though. 

 

“Ryan?” 

 

I point to his door. 

 

“I got it— it’s the right door.” This is good, but for some reason he frowns instead of congratulating me. What is he doing? He should be happy for me. He leans forward and I do, too, but our intentions clearly differ because he grabs my shoulders instead of kissing me, and looks straight at me. I let out a giggle. His eyes really are pretty, but his eyebrows are still knit together. 

 

“You shouldn’t frown, it makes you look angry,” I say, but that doesn’t seem to stop him. He’s still staring at me. Do I have something on my face? I lift a hand to my cheek and make an attempt to wipe it off, whatever it is. 

 

“Are you drunk?” He sounds incredulous. Is it that hard to believe?

 

“…Maybe,” I answer truthfully. I haven’t drunk quite enough to be completely wasted, but I’m definitely not sober. Definitely not. 

 

“Kiss me,” is all I can come up with, and something flashes across his features too fast for my brain to process. He holds his hands on my shoulders firmly, as if he’s afraid I’ll collapse at any moment. I won’t. He worries too much. 

 

“You should go home,” he says drily, but there’s a spark in the pit of my stomach that’s threatening to turn into a fire if I don’t give in. If he doesn’t give in. 

 

“Look,” I start, but spot a record player over his shoulder and forget what I wanted to say. I fucking _love_ record players. I push him aside —he stumbles a bit, I think— and make my way to the cupboard it’s set on; there’s no disc on it, so I try to look into that. I gotta put music on. I gotta make this less awkward, somehow.

 

“Where are your— ” Fuck. I can’t remember the word for it. “The, you know,” — I make a spinning motion with my hand. Not helpful. “Spinning thing. Thing that spins. And it makes music. God, I’m tired.” 

 

He closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed in front of his chest, and I want to tell him that doors aren’t made to be leaned against, but I don’t. 

 

I remember there being a couch in his living room, so I go for it. I think I’ve seen this couch before. Or closeups of it. Or something. Either way, it’s inviting. I collapse into it. 

 

“Ow.” 

 

A book lodges itself between my ribs. Or somewhere very close by. I don’t know how it got there, or if books are even supposed to be on couches or between ribs. It hurts, though. I reach for the book and pull it out from under me. The title reads Jane Eyre, or whatever that is. I throw it aside and rest my head on the armrest. Why is it called an armrest, anyway? It’s pretty good for resting heads. 

 

My eyelids are heavy but it feels like there’s something I need to say. He stands over me, and I almost giggle because of how tall he looks from this angle. I’m usually the tall one, right?

 

“I still think you should kiss me, you know,” I mumble as my eyes close. I don’t know if he caught that, but it doesn’t really matter. 

 

It feels like I’m home. 


	9. Trial & Error

Andy’s different.

 

He smiles at me as he walks in, nods in Pete and Ashley’s direction. Ashley looks surprised, and I can’t help but smile. It’s satisfying to see Ashley feeling something other than contempt or boredom. Nice to know she can have emotions that are out of her control, too.

 

“What is it?” I ask as Andy sits down next to me and pulls his phone out of his pocket, answering a text he got. And it dawns on me, right there. He doesn’t even need to answer because it’s written all over his face.

 

“You found them.”

 

It’s not a question.

 

He looks up at me, eyes out of focus. Smiles.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Something that feels like disappointment hits me, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I had convinced myself that not everyone needed a soulmate to be happy, to survive in this society, with Andy as the perfect example. Maybe some people stayed with transparent blood forever, and that was okay. But I stare at the phone in Andy’s hand as he answers yet another text and suddenly my veins feel like they’re burning, like the liquid in them has suddenly turned to acid. Andy’s in love.

 

Andy’s in love and I’m still here, sitting in the same chair. I think about Breezy and her advice. It makes me feel nauseous; I remember way too many details from last Saturday. I remember his face as he opened the door. The stupid fucking words that got past my lips somehow, alcohol destroying the filter that’s usually between my brain and my mouth.

 

Dallon and Breezy don’t show up, as expected, and I don’t know why I thought they would. Maybe some part of me wanted Breezy to see what’s happened, a “Look what happens when I _do_ something,” a “I told you so.”

 

But, of course, she isn’t here. I'm starting to think that maybe I just dreamt them up.

 

Relief washes over me as the clock finally displays eleven o’clock, and Pete doesn’t say anything about the empty chair at the other end of the table. Brendon’s not coming back. I don’t have to see him again. Ever. Something about that thought is comforting, and I try to ignore the underlying feeling that keeps nagging at me.

 

Tyler was asleep when I walked in earlier, so I nudge him awake. He smiles at me sleepily, and for a split second I wonder what it’d be like if we lived like the other Ashens. Alone together. I picture him standing in the middle of a tiny living room, somewhere in the suburbs of LA. Maybe I could be happy there. With him.

 

“I gotta ask you something after class,” I hear myself say, and Tyler nods, though I’m not sure if it’s for Andy or me. Andy’s now recounting the story of how he met his soulmate - a guy who works in a law firm, apparently. I tried to congratulate him, but I’m pretty sure he heard the disappointment in my voice, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I don’t think he cared, though. He’s on a fucking cloud.

 

There's a knot in my stomach by the time everyone stands up to leave, but it seems like it’s worth it; Tyler could be my closest shot at happiness. We could live like we’re supposed to, accept our place in the society. Maybe that would be for the best.

 

Pete and Ashley leave with Andy, one on each side. It seems as if Ashley finally deigned acknowledge his presence. She’s such a judgmental bitch, but this isn’t what I’m here for. Andy doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye, and something tells me it’ll be like that from now on; he’s upgraded, and that’s what happens when people upgrade.

 

Tyler doesn’t have anything to pack up, so he just watches me, hands in his pockets, which doesn’t do anything to ease the goddamn knot.

 

I stand up straight and leave my backpack on the table. Tyler looks at me and there are questions in his eyes that I don’t try to understand. I could weasel right out of this and just ask him how he’s been, ask to see his wrists for new scars.

 

I don’t.

 

Instead, I grab his jacket with both hands and pull him towards me; he’s lighter than I expected him to be, and I’m a few inches taller. I lean down faster than he has time to react and, as our lips crash together, I know I’ve made a mistake.

 

He tastes.. wrong. There’s no fire in the pit of my stomach, nothing other than that knot, which is still there, firm and taking up more space than I care to think about. Tyler tastes empty. I’m not alarmed, somehow, like I expected it to be this way, but wanted to try despite that knowledge. I am that desperate, apparently.

 

He doesn’t kiss me back; he pulls away and looks at me, frowning. Fuck. Now I need to explain. Or apologise. I don’t know which is worse.

 

“I’m sorry, I—”

 

Tyler closes his eyes and holds a hand up, and I’m not sure whether that means _“Shut the fuck up”_ or _“_ _It’s okay."_   Probably both. Or neither. He’s still impossible to read. I stare at the tattoo on his hand.  

 

After a second that might as well have been an eternity, he takes a deep breath.

 

“I’d be mad, but I’ve thought of this, too,” he confesses, and the knot loosens ever so slightly. He looks up at me, brown eyes still ringed with a grey so dark it’s almost black. “It’s not going to work, is it?”

 

I shake my head. He’s right. It’s not. I know I’d rather he be wrong, but he’s not. It’d make it all so much easier, but I wouldn’t be able to do it - pretend to love someone who’s not the person I’m supposed to love. I don’t know how others do it; I don’t know how they can live a lie, spend their lives trying to convince themselves that they’re okay like this. That living with a cheap replacement is even enough to want to pretend. As if it was worth it. I’d rather die.

 

“Thank you.”

 

I mean it. There is no anger in Tyler’s eyes, and I am more thankful for that lack of emotion than anything else, right this moment. We’re on the same page. No need for second guessing that choice of staying alone, now. I’ve made my decision; Tyler shakes his head as if to say there’s no need to thank him, but I do anyway. It feels right.

 

“I’m gonna go home now,” he says, and I nod. I should do that, too, so I pick up my backpack and follow him out. I really hope we'll be okay the next time we meet. In a week. 

 

There’s someone leaning against the frame of the main door, but I don’t pay attention to them as Tyler opens it and steps outside, not stopping to check if I’m still following. I move to do the same, but a hand on my arm stops me.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

The voice is one that’s already too familiar. A voice I didn’t want to hear, ever again. A voice I couldn’t bear to hear. It almost makes me flinch, and the invisible pain, the guilt I’ve been trying to ignore comes rushing in. I already regret what I’m doing before I’ve even done it.

 

And yet, I still do it.

 

I look at him.

 

***

 

“That’s such bullshit.”

 

Okay. So he’s not convinced, then.

 

Brendon’s pacing back and forth in the small space right in front of the main door. I tried to come up with a believable argument as to why I showed up at his door on Saturday night, but it’s clearly not working. He’s not happy. I’m not happy, either. He’s making me nauseous. Also, guilt. Guilt is definitely a thing right now.  

 

What if he knows I kissed Tyler?

 

He doesn’t, of course. Two men walking out of the same room at the same time does not necessarily equate making out. Plus, we weren’t making out. He didn’t even kiss me back. I’d be offended if the circumstances were different, but all of this makes sense.

 

But Brendon’s not here for accusations or because he’s jealous. No, Brendon’s here for something much, much worse: justification.

 

“You can’t just show up _demanding_ an explanation,” I say. It’s a sad attempt to make me look like the good guy, but even I know how ridiculous I sound. Brendon frowns and looks at me with what I identify as disbelief.

 

“You— you come to my house on a Saturday night—”

 

“I—”

 

“No, listen!” He raises his voice, and I can’t help but wince. “You have the _audacity_ to come to my house on a fucking Saturday night, drunk, begging for me to kiss you, and you expect me _not_ to have any questions? You’re so fucking delusional, dude.” He lets out a chuckle of incredulity and starts pacing again. I feared this moment, but never really thought it’d happen. Didn’t think he’d have the guts to actually confront me.

 

But he does, and now he stands in front of me, eyes bright, demanding. For a reason for my behaviour, for the begging, the showing up. For everything that feels too big for me to explain. How do you tell someone who’ll fall in love with someone else that they’re the person haunting your dreams? That their lips are the only thing you’re thinking about, all day? That you’ve been wondering what it’d be like to wake up next to them, every morning?

 

Are there even words for that, words that don’t sound pathetic and empty and over the top and _completely fucking desperate_?

 

There aren’t, apparently, because I don’t say anything.

 

“This is the moment where you talk,” he spits, and I open my mouth before closing it again. I don’t know what to tell him that’ll not a) make him punch me or b) make me want to kiss him more than I already do.

 

“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

 

“No, you’re right. You shouldn’t have.”

 

That hurts more than I’d expected it to, somehow, and the little flicker of hope that maybe, after all, he appreciated my sudden appearance is suddenly put out by his words. He really didn’t want me there, huh? He crosses his arms in front of his chest and I’m reminded of when he did the exact same thing, just three days ago. I remember too well for my own sake.

 

_Doors aren’t made to be leaned against._

 

He speaks again, and now there’s accusation in his tone. Fucking finally.  

 

“You shouldn’t have been drunk in the first place.”

 

Now _that’s_ none of his fucking business, and I start telling him just that, but he puts a hand up, interrupting me mid-sentence. And, for some reason, I actually shut up. Readjust the backpack that’s been hanging on my shoulder in a way that I hope conveys my anger.

 

“It is my business since you were in _my_ home,” he says, and the sudden cockiness in his voice infuriates me. He has no right to be like this.

 

“Also, I would’ve wanted you to remember this _._ ”

 

He briskly crosses the distance that’s separating us and before I can even get in another word, we’re kissing - he pins me against the wall, hands cupping my face, and I’m unable to breathe for a brief second, unsure if it’s from his touch or the sheer presence of his body so close to mine. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he truly had been waiting since Saturday,  since last time we kissed, hell, since forever to do this again; his tongue slips into my mouth, hot and wet, and I suppress a whine as he pushes even closer, trapping me between him and the wall. Fucking bastard.

 

I’m defenceless, and it’s infuriating — I’m like wax under his fingers, responsive to every touch, every hint of lurid fire he leaves on my skin even through layers and layers of clothes. The backpack slides to the floor, and with it goes every last bit of resentment I had for Brendon. My hands fly to his hair, just the way I had imagined it over and over in the past few weeks; he grinds against me lightly and I grab his hips, desperate for any kind of leverage to keep my head above the water; there is no time to think. No thinking, just doing. My body seems to take over every bit of sensibility I have left, not leaving room for anything else besides the need to have him closer, and closer still. Our teeth clash as I kiss him back, and one of his hands reaches down to cup me and, God, I’m so fucking hard already. His nose slides against my cheek and he whispers something in my ear that my brain cannot process. All I can think of is his hands on me and how it’d feel without the damn fabric between us, how beautiful he’d be, stripped of everything.

 

“Bren—” I choke out as he palms me through my jeans, fucking merciless, and he kisses me again. “Bren, we need to, _God,_ we need to—”

 

“I’m not going to let you stop this time,” he says in a low voice, thick with desire. His hands are unbuckling my belt expertly as he kisses me again, and I gasp against his lips. He smiles, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

 

“F-Fine, but just— just do _something_ , please.” I hate that I’m begging, but anything else is beyond me right now. I need to feel him; I’m so close to falling apart right beneath his hands — and suddenly he’s gone. He pulls away, a smirk on his lips. Bastard, bastard, _bastard_. My heart is pounding. I’m so hard it hurts, and he’s just— he’s just there. Standing way too far away for what we were just doing, completely fine and outrageously unbothered, his hair sticking up where I pulled at it, almost as if to mock me and my pathetic attempts at keeping my breathing steady.

 

“ _You’re_ going to wait, now,” he says, and I’d punch that look off his face if I wasn’t completely at his mercy. “Yours or mine?”

 

“Fuck you,” I growl, buckling my belt again with shaking hands. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me.

 

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and pushes the door open. “We’ll see about that.”


	10. He's No Phantom, He's No Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is my first -ever- shot at smut, so please do bear with me as i learn more about actually writing this and shit. yeah. sorry!
> 
> do know that i spent three days rocking back and forth in a corner because i was so scared of fucking it up, but i'm satisfied with this? more or less?
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> \- title from arthur rimbaud's _[the foolish virgin](http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Virgin.html)_. just thought you should know.

We don’t make it to his door. 

 

The hallway that leads to his apartment is too long, too similar to the one we just left, and I slam him against the wall before we reach it, kissing him hard. He responds with a grunt, a weak protest that turns into a moan when I press my crotch against his. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve tried to run away for too long, and I’m here again. Right where we started. He kisses me back ferociously and fists my hair, pulling on it, and I groan. Fuck, I want him. I need him, need to see him, but he slips away suddenly and takes a few unsteady steps towards his door. He really, really needs to stop doing this. It makes me too aware of how he shouldn’t be kissing me. How our lips never should have connected in the first place. 

 

But I follow him anyway, because there has to be more. It can’t just end like this, with sloppy kisses and half-satisfied stares, and it’s obvious that he knows that all too well as he fumbles with the keys he’s fished out of God knows where. I stare. His hair falls into his eyes a little and his hands are trembling slightly even if he’s trying to keep them steady. God, he’s trying to look so unbothered and failing so hard, and he’s ridiculously attractive. I run a hand through my hair, trying to flatten it as much as possible, but he finally unlocks the door and all the work I’ve been doing on keeping my shit together goes to waste. 

He walks into the apartment and turns around, a mix of mischief and smugness in his eyes. Fucker. His hands were shaking, betraying the facade he pulled up so quickly; he has no right to look like this. I cross the distance between us and kiss him hard, tangling my hands in his hair, and he kisses me right back, pulling closer to me, so fucking wanton, and something clatters to the floor but I can’t bother to pay attention. He’s taking over everything within me and he’s everything I see, everything I want, as if nothing else ever really mattered. All distance that he had put between us vanishes as we stumble to the couch, the very couch I remember falling into that evening and he straddles me and looks at me and, God, he’s so fucking hot. A small smile decorates his lips and I can’t help but kiss them again, wanting to claim them, to call all of his kisses mine, now and forever.His tongue slips into my mouth and I groan as he reaches down, palming me shamelessly through the rough fabric of my jeans, and I’m at his mercy again, except that this time, he’s just like me. I can see it in his eyes. We are vulnerable in the most delightful way. The kisses soon become urged and desperate, full of need that both of us have been denying ourselves for what seems like too long now. I want him. No more fucking games. He pulls my shirt up and I cooperate this time, unlike that time so long ago. Why’d I ever say no to him? I can’t deny him anything; I never could. 

“Brendon,” I whisper, and he looks at me, eyes dark, taking in the single word as if it were a command. He splays his hands across my chest and I suck in a sharp breath. He sees me; there’s nowhere to hide. He’s not smiling, but starts unbuckling my belt once again, fingers working on the cheap metal expertly and I capture his lips in a desperate kiss halfway through because I can’t just look at him and do nothing about it. We’re finally here, feverish, together, and his hands are all over me, hungrily tracing every bit of skin he can find. I try to catch my breath between two kisses as my own hands find the button of his jeans, but before I can blindly convince my fingers to cooperate, he pulls back and our mouths part with a wet sound, and suddenly I miss him invading my space, feel his warmth draining away. He stands up in front of me and interrupts me right as I’m about to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing. 

 

“Stand,” he says, his cheeks flushed but his eyes too steady for him not to know what he’s doing. He’s done this before. I do as he says, and we’re kissing again, starving. He leaves trails of kisses on my chest, over the visible veins running beneath my skin, making his way further and further down, and my breathing hitches when his mouth passes my navel, his hands cupping me, pulling my unbuttoned jeans down along with my underwear. He kisses my hipbone teasingly, one hand brushing against my length. Fuck. I’m ridiculously hard, but he’s taking his time, stroking me, and I let out a groan that I can’t bite back. He doesn’t say it, but there’s no mistaking this; he’s making me wait just like I made him, some sick payback for when I shot him down what seems like years ago. 

 

“Relax,” he says, and his thumb brushes over the tip of my cock, spreading the pre-come that gathered there. I answer him with disjointed breaths, willing him to just go on, to keep going, to do more than just— Fuck. He wants me to beg, doesn’t he? He’ll have to wait for a while for that, the fucker. He runs his tongue on the side of my cock, and a whine escape my lips.

 

“Please.” He looks up at me and smiles wickedly as his tongue flicks over my slit, sending a shudder down my spine. He wins. He wins. His mouth moves back to my hip, teasing, sucking on the sensitive skin, one hand stroking me, and my heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. “God, please, Brendon, I—” I need him to do more than just— 

 

He takes me in and I forget how to breathe. 

 

God, his mouth feels so fucking good, wet and warm, and his head starts moving back and forth, steadily, my shaft shiny with his spit. He doesn’t gag, his lips stretching around my cock; I’m helpless. He’s in control, my cock in his mouth, and it feels right. I stare at him, at my hands in his hair, at his dark lashes and at his hands on either side of my hips, and I will my knees not to buckle. My hips thrust forward, almost of their own accord, and I let out a moan as he curls his fingers around the base of my cock, squeezing slightly. His cheeks hollow as he sucks on the tip, and I take a shaky breath and close my eyes, a fire threatening to spread to the rest of my being in the pit of my stomach. 

 

“Fuck, Brendon, I’m gonna—” He doesn’t stop, his tongue running along my length, placing wet kisses at the base before taking me again, all the way, and I come, pleasure shooting through my limbs, and Brendon doesn’t pull away. He moans and swallows, and I don’t have time to think about how good he is at this because I need to catch my breath, to focus on the feeling of his mouth on me, on the overwhelming desire I have to repeat his name, over and over, like a mantra. My hands pull on his hair, holding his head in place as I come. 

 

My cock finally slips out of his mouth and I pull him up, cup his face and kiss him hard, clinging onto him because my legs might give out. God, I’m fucking wrecked. He moans dirtily, swollen lips against mine, and I realise that we’re here because of me. His hair is a mess because of me, his eyes are filled with want for— for me. Someone like me. Someone that never should even have touched him that way. So I touch him, because I can and because I want to, feeling his erection through his pants, and fuck, he’s so hard. I look at him. He takes my hand, pulling me towards a door that can only be his bedroom. I’m stuck in place. He just did that, but I don’t know if I can go all the way. I look at him and at our linked hands.

 

“Brendon, I— I don’t know if I can—” He looks at me, nods and lets go of my hand, which falls limply against my thigh. A knot forms in my stomach. I’ve fucked up. I had another shot, and I fucked it up. Brendon has one hand on the door handle; he doesn’t move. I try to think of something else. I want him. I do. I just can’t go all the way. Not now, not after six years of getting used to the idea of not ever having anyone. It’s too risky. He looks up at me. 

 

“We don’t have to fuck,” he says simply, and a jolt of newfound excitement mixed with relief shoots through me. He gets it. 

 

***

 

The bedroom door slams behind us and he’s all over me again, his hands everywhere, placing kisses on my neck, and I can’t focus on anything else but the outline of his cock through his pants, lining his leg. I want to see him, all of him, just like he saw me. We collapse onto the bed, him beneath me, and my hands fly between us to his undone button, wanting to make him understand what he just did to me. I need him to understand. He pulls his shirt off in one swift movement, and I let myself look at his flushed chest for a second, at the deep rise-and-fall motion of it, proof that all of this is real. He’s not wearing any underwear, as if he’d planned this all along, and my breathing hitches as his cock springs up, want sparking in my stomach again. I launch forward to kiss him, stroking him with one hand. He moans against my lips, and I taste myself on his tongue. 

 

“Ryan, you—” His voice is rough, thick with desire, suddenly cut off by the sharp breath he sucks in when I touch him, lightly, tentatively, but his reaction emboldens me and I nip at his jaw and kiss him, and he repeats my name until he comes, streaks of white on his stomach and on my knuckles. I watch the muscles of his stomach quiver as he comes down from his orgasm, take him in, beautiful and splayed out on his own bed, his hair a mess. I wipe my hand on my jeans and place a kiss on his lips. He smiles lazily, eyes soft. 

 

“You’re something, huh?” 

 

 

I don’t answer him, laying down and twining our fingers together instead. 

 

 

He doesn’t seem to mind. 


	11. Incandescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might've gotten slightly carried away with this one, which.. explains the fact that it's nearly three times the length of my usual chapter. 
> 
> i just hope you enjoy!

There’s a knock at the door. 

 

 

“Fuck.” 

 

I glance at the small clock on my bedside table, which displays 7:45pm. Brendon had never struck me as a punctual guy, but apparently he can be when he needs to— when he wants to? 

 

We’ve planned this for weeks now, but I never thought he’d actually be on time. El stares at me in confusion as I struggle with my tie and look around for my second shoe. I can never fucking find my second shoe. 

 

“Coming!” I stumble to the door, one hand still on the miserable tangle of fabric at my throat. My mother never taught me how to make a fucking tie knot, but I push the thought of her out of my head as I reach for the handle. She wasn’t there for me then, she isn’t now. She left and now she’s irrelevant. He isn’t. He’s here. 

 

On time, at that. 

 

I open the door to see him behind it, a small smile on his lips. His hair is slicked back in a way that would be comical on anyone else but looks ridiculously good on him, and I run a hand through my own hair as if that could make it magically look better. His hands disappear in his pockets, and I like to think that it’s because he’s as nervous as I am, just like that time all those months ago, in his small kitchen with his instant coffee. I smile at the thought and he nods towards the side of my door. 

 

“Your doorbell’s broken?” 

 

I stare at said doorbell. Damn. I never even knew I _had_ a doorbell. Guess that’s proof of how few visitors I get. 

 

“Never realised it was,” I say, shrugging, and he rolls his eyes and steps through the door. He’s wearing a tux that looks like it was sewn on him, and I need a second to force myself not to think of the fact that I might look like a clothed asparagus next to him. 

 

El is at Brendon’s feet, tail wagging furiously. He crouches down to pet her and I smile; he’s a dog person, too. I learned more about him over these last weeks than I have about anyone else, ever; we spent so much time together that it must’ve been unhealthy, but not once it felt like too much. He’d told me he’d always wanted a dog but never had one. I almost told him El could be his dog, too, but held back last second. We weren’t there, yet. I stare at both of them. 

 

“You look good,” he says, pulling me out of my thoughts. He’s eyeing me with absolutely no shame whatsoever, and I pull on my tie because there is no way I can look good in this disaster. He raises an eyebrow and stands back up, walking closer. El lets out a whine of discontentment and we both ignore her. Sorry, El. 

 

“Are you, Ryan Ross, incapable of tying a tie?” 

 

He’s teasing, but I can’t help the twinge of resentment in my chest. I don’t tell him about my mother. Too soon for mummy issues, and really not the time either. We’re celebrating New Year’s Eve today. Tonight, whatever. 

 

“Shut up,” I grumble, and he lets out a short laugh as his hands fly to the collar of my shirt. His fingers work expertly on the mediocre knot, and soon the tie is back to its original state, albeit somewhat crumpled. “We can’t all be perfect.” 

 

He huffs and I look at him. His eyes are focused on my tie, his bottom lip between his teeth and he is absolutely within kissing distance; I can smell his cologne. I don’t, though. Whether it’s because I’m scared he won’t want to or that it’s just plain weird, I’ll think about later. One would think we’d be completely comfortable around each other by now. It seems like he is, but there’s always this knowledge that I can’t shake — my blood is the darkest shade blood can be. He’s never done anything to make me feel that way, but I guess years of convincing yourself that you’re inherently less will do that to you. 

 

Once he’s done, he takes a step back and admires his own work; I forget all about the intrusive thoughts. It’s just him. 

 

“I would tend to disagree,” he concludes, and I need a second to remember what I said right before. 

 

Oh, right. Perfection. 

 

I don’t ask him what he means, and he doesn’t elaborate. I don’t plan on starting this evening with stutters and a red face, thank you very much. 

 

He adjusts his own tie in front of the small mirror I hung up in the entrance forever ago as I finally find my other shoe. 

 

Today is December 30th. 

 

I haven’t celebrated New Year’s Eve in six years, and Brendon’s family is back in Nevada, so we came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t really matter if we celebrated it a day earlier. 

 

“Our own New Year,” he’d said on a night that I can’t remember, one of the many nights we spent lying around, my arms around him or his around me. That sentence just stuck with me, and I’m glad it did with him too. Something to call not only mine, but to share with him. Tonight is our night. 

 

El is still standing near us, her tail wags getting weaker and weaker as she realises she’s not coming with us. 

 

“Sorry, buddy,” I tell her as I motion Brendon out the door. “We’ll be back soon, alright?” 

 

I leave the lights on for her and she shoots me an offended look before turning to go lounge on my bed. Hopefully she won’t pee on it as payback. 

 

“Promise, Witch of the West!” I yell into the apartment, and she lets out a small bark as I close the door. She’ll be fine; we do this all the time, she just likes to make me feel guilty. My fault for having an intelligent dog. 

 

We start towards the lift when Brendon looks at me. He’s smirking. A strand of hair has somehow managed to escape the gel hell it was trapped in, and I would tell him if it didn’t look as good as it does. My eyes focus back on his face. Not that I mind.

 

“Witch of the West?” He sounds amused, but not surprised.

 

I shrug. “Wicked.” 

 

Thought he’d know his classics. 

 

He chuckles, grabbing my hand. I try to pretend I was completely aware he was going to do that and ignore the sudden knot in my stomach. Still does it. The butterflies are still there. 

 

“Nerd.”

 

I bet he can tell I’m nervous. Oh, God. 

 

***

 

The street is empty when we leave the restaurant, stomachs full and hearts happy. Champagne was a no-go since Brendon’s underage — which left him grumbling for about half of the meal — but it was the best meal I’ve had in a while, and I tell him so. 

 

“Good,” he says, the satisfaction obvious in his voice. I feel a rush of gratitude towards him, even if I know this was as much for him as it was for me. He’s making New Year’s mean something, which is more than I’ve had in years. We walk in silence through the lamp-lit street. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late. You’d expect a few people milling about, at least, but I’m guessing everyone’s too busy doing the prepping for the actual New Year’s Eve, tomorrow.

 

All the stores are closed and a few cars are parked on the side of the street, dark and abandoned for the night. 

 

It feels liberating, somehow, to be on the street in public, without anyone staring at my hands or my neck. It feels like the world is mine, and having him by my side only makes it better. It’s like we could take over, make this whole city ours and destroy all the shitty things happening in it. 

 

He's so quiet, though, so I don’t bolt forward and run on the empty street like my brain’s telling me to. I don’t think my stomach would appreciate it either. 

 

“Did you see how the waiter’s attitude changed when he saw your hand?” Brendon asks suddenly, and I’m taken aback by the question, the bit of drunken euphoria I was in vanishing completely, replaced by shame. I hate that he noticed. I hate everything that reminds me of who I really am, the person I didn’t choose to be. I hate that he has to see that side of me. 

 

Of course I noticed. I notice every stare, every glance, every look of disgust, of pity that people throw my way. He’s right, though. The guy was all smiles until he caught sight of the small veins on the back of my hands, after which the friendliness disappeared and cold formality crept in his voice. Guess that proves waiters don’t really look at your face. I’ve learned to ignore those looks over the years, but it still hurts sometimes. They’re why I stopped trying to make friends that aren’t Ashens, too. I think of Ashley’s stares and try to forget. It’s pointless. The anger is pointless.

 

“Yeah,” I say, and Brendon suddenly stops walking, snatching my arm, forcing me to stop too. I look back at him, frowning.

 

“How can you let them treat you like that?” He blurts out, and I don’t know what to tell him, so I shrug. I don't really have a choice in the matter, but I guess he doesn’t see that. I don’t have the energy to be mad, either.

 

The shrug doesn’t seem to be enough of an answer because he frowns too, but doesn’t say anything. He’ll get used to it if he sticks around long enough, but that probably won’t happen. I won’t let myself hope because nothing good has ever come from hoping too much. He stays silent for the rest of the way, and I focus on little things to keep my mind off that until he grabs my hand. It’s becoming a habit. I like it. 

 

I smile up at him and he gives me a weak smile back, a sign that he’s making an effort for me. To let it go. The waiter doesn't matter. People don’t matter. We kiss in the middle of the street like the teenagers that we no longer are, and for a few moments I forget about everything else. 

 

We get back to my apartment because Brendon left his car there, and I ask him offhandedly if he wants to come up for a bit. He smirks and agrees, so we get into the lift. I keep my mind away from everything he could be thinking right now. 

 

Don’t fucking think of his lips. Don’t. There aren’t enough floors to go to do anything realistic. 

 

Brendon shoots me a side-glance and I chuckle, as if I have no idea what’s going on in his head, but my instincts take over and I kick into motion. I slam him against one of the walls and our mouths crash together. The elevator dings, indicating my floor’s here already. Never has an elevator ride seemed so short before. Where was this time acceleration when I really needed to pee? 

 

The first thing I notice when the doors open at my floor is that there’s someone sitting in front of my door, legs stretched out in front of them. The person’s wearing a cap and a black jacket.

 

“Shit,” I whisper, and start forward as Brendon follows me. If it's a homeless person, I don’t know what I'm supposed to do. Call the police? How did they even get here? 

 

Walking closer, I recognise the jacket that turns out to be a hoodie. My stomach drops. What is he doing here? 

 

“Tyler?” 

 

Tyler looks up slowly, the cap casting a shadow over his dark eyes, and an unconvincing smile appears on his face. He seems tired as ever, grey rings over sunken cheeks, looking like I just woke him up. 

 

“Hey,” he croaks, confirming my previous guess. So he was sleeping. God, how long was he here for?

 

“Fancy,” he adds, nodding towards my tux, and my cheeks burn. Shame twists inside me like a knife. I’m happy while he’s still in pain, still living in the past where his soulmate was alive. It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be making out in elevators while he’s like this. 

 

Guilt. That’s what this is. I can feel Brendon standing behind me, and I wonder if he recognises Tyler. Probably not. Tyler’s never been someone people’s eyes lingered on, and I can’t help but feel a rush of disgust towards Brendon, towards anyone who’s ever belittled Tyler. He deserves so much more than this life, living in the shadows of everyone else, like a stray dog on a busy street. There but no one pays attention, ever. 

 

“What are you doing here?” 

 

Tyler stands up like a wounded animal, slowly, one hand against the wall, the morse still there, not faded at all. For a second, I consider asking him if he’s okay, if I need to call an ambulance or something. 

 

“I came to say goodbye,” he says quietly, and my insides turn to ice. 

 

I think of his tears and the marks on his wrists, of what he told me about the bright colours just being a distant memory. Of the dullness. A mix of desperation and helplessness rush into my head and I grab his shoulders and look him in the eye. He can’t go. I’ll make it better. He can’t just go. There’s gotta be something I can do to make him stay, anything, anything. 

 

I can’t bring Josh back, can I? I can’t do that. 

 

“Listen,” I say, voice uneven. “You can’t— You can’t just do that.” He stares at me for a few seconds, confusion plain in his eyes. I search his face for a sign of relief, of hope, anything, but all that appears is understanding and some sort of horror. He chuckles bitterly. 

 

“I’m not going to kill myself, Ryan.”

 

My arms drop to my sides. He’s not? 

 

He’s not. 

 

Thank God. I lean against the wall and close my eyes. He’s not going to die. Okay. 

 

I take a deep breath before looking at him again. I try to gather my thoughts and come up with a plausible explanation to this. Tyler’s looking down at his hands in a way that I recognise too well, his lips a thin line. 

 

“Then why are you saying goodbye?” 

 

I don’t understand. What is he doing? What game is he playing? I glance at Brendon who seems just as confused as me, unable to provide any answers, so I focus back on Tyler. He’s picking up the bag that I hadn’t noticed was at his feet; there’s a small suitcase as well, a sticker with two initials that aren’t his on it. So he’s really leaving. 

 

“I’m going to Sylmar,” he says finally, and it all makes sense. Sylmar is one of those towns, one of those Ashen filled cities that Tyler and I were destined to live in, but never did. He’ll find someone. He will. That’s where the Ashen population is the densest, and there’s no way he won’t find anyone there. “Tried to call you but you didn’t answer. So I figured I’d wait.” 

 

Shit. I search my pockets for my phone. Must’ve left it home. I tell him so, and he nods, half convinced. I try not to think about whether he would’ve waited until morning to say goodbye to me. Not to think about the fact that I might be his only friend, just like he was mine for so long. 

 

“I’m glad for you, though.” I pull him into a hug and squeeze him hard, hoping it’ll convey whatever affection I have for him. I hope he knows that. “Good luck, Ty,” I say as I pull away and he picks up his suitcase almost immediately, as if he can’t stand my presence anymore. It feels more like last words than goodbye. 

 

He gets into the lift that Brendon and I just stepped out of and looks back one last time, something like wistfulness and ageless fatigue in his gaze, and it twists my guts. He deserves to be happy more than me, and yet he’s the one leaving. Shunned by LA, city of angels, where dreams don’t come true for people like us. Tyler’s eyes travel to Brendon, then me, and he smiles again.

 

“I hope you’ll be happy,” he lets out as the doors close between us, and I don’t have time to wish him the same thing back. To wish happiness upon him. To wish him to find someone that’ll make him forget his blood colour, for even one second. Guilt stabs at me again and I will myself not to bleed out.

 

***

 

We stand in front of my door and I’m staring at the spot where Tyler held himself just seconds ago. My mind hasn’t quite registered the fact that I’m probably never going to see him again yet, but it’s pointless to overthink. Brendon doesn’t say anything but keeps silent, and I’m thankful for that. I want to sit down right where Tyler was and mourn, mourn the person that he used to be, mourn his soulmate and everything that he missed out on. I take a deep breath, to purge myself of all these thoughts that start plaguing my mind at a pace that I can’t begin to understand. 

 

This is our night. Brendon and I’s. 

 

I can think about what this means later. 

 

The image of Tyler sitting in front of my door disappears from my mind as I remember something. I grab Brendon’s hand and he seems surprised, like he was lost in thought, too. He didn’t know Tyler as well as I did, but then again I don’t think anyone ever knew him. Josh, perhaps. 

 

“C’mon, there’s something I want to show you.” I pull Brendon behind me towards a small door that’s so discreet no one ever really notices it. Hell, I hadn’t noticed it until the day I locked myself out and had to wait an hour for the landlord to get his ass here. 

 

We climb the dark stairs — Brendon asks me if I plan on murdering him, to which I let out a half hearted ominous laugh — and reach the roof of the building. His eyes open wide as he takes in the view, a smile spreading on his face, and my heart swells at the sight of him, pushing Tyler out of my head. 

 

“This is amazing,” he says, taking a few steps forward, his head tilted back. 

 

I look up with him. “You can never really see the stars, but it’s something.” 

 

The light pollution in LA is undeniable, and it’s a pity most nights, especially tonight. I wish we could watch the stars together.

 

“Yeah,” he lets out, and the wonder in his voice confirms that doing this was a good idea. He’s probably never seen LA like this. I hadn’t. 

 

We stand in silence as he looks at the lights of the city, and I look at him. I’d never really thought something like this could happen. That someone like him could come into my life and stay in it for as long as he has. His presence is like that time the power went out and I came up here only to see the sky strewn with stars, brighter than I ever could’ve imagined them. He makes me feel like that. Alive, despite the darkness everything else is plunged in. 

 

“I don’t want to be the broody-poet type,” I say, breaking the silence because my own thoughts are becoming too overwhelming. He tears his eyes from the city to look at me. “But I like to come up here to think. Makes me see the world differently, y’know?” 

 

Brendon chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. The gel’s still there, but a few strands are sticking up randomly now. “That’s.. the most broody-poet thing I’ve ever heard you say.” I stick my hands in my pockets and look down at my shoes. “It’s a good thing, though,” he adds, “I know what you mean.” Some part of me is relieved at the validation he just provided. So I’m not _completely_ lame. 

 

We sit down on the concrete after he’s done looking at the lights to try to spot the few stars that deign appear in the night sky. The slight wind makes me shiver, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy trying to convince me that the light from a plane is a star. 

 

“I swear,” he says, laughter in his voice, and I can’t help but smile at his miserable attempts. I let myself be convinced; what’s the harm in it? 

 

Suddenly, his arm shoots up, finger pointing somewhere above our heads. 

 

“Shooting star!” He exclaims before looking back at me, eyes wide. I squint in vain. It’s probably the same plane, but I don’t say anything. “Make a wish!” His boyish excitement makes me happy, and the first thought that comes to my head is that I want to keep feeling this way forever. I want to freeze frame and leave the TV on at this very instant and throw the remote out of the window, so that no one can ever press play again. 

 

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a shooting star,” I say, and he pouts at me exaggeratedly, like a kid who just got denied ice cream even though he’s already had three. I’ve never seen an actual shooting star. “But fine. I wish to be happy for the rest of my life.” I don’t tell him that my happiness seems to be heavily involving him, though. 

 

He chuckles.“You’re not supposed to say the wish out loud, you know,” he says, looking back up as if the fleeting star would still be there, waiting for him. It would be there if that first wish had come true; frozen frame, infinite moment. Wishes are stupid. “It’s not a very original one, either.”

 

I shrug and look at him. “I know. But they never come true when I keep them in my mind, so I figured maybe this one will.” He nods as if to say my reasoning’s fair. “And originality doesn’t really get you anywhere, does it?” 

 

He smiles and says nothing, eyes glued to the sky once again, as if he knows something I don’t. I wonder what his wish was, but don’t ask him. Maybe I’m afraid he’ll tell me a truth that I don’t want to hear. I push the other wish I had out of my head, the underlying, dirty, selfish thought that kept coming back. Him being my soulmate, that our blood’s matching, in another universe, where things are less fucked up than they are now and where my real soulmate isn’t dead but called Brendon and sitting next to me on a roof beneath a starry sky. A universe that’s not the one I’m in. 

 

I wonder if, in that other universe, Josh would be alive. If Dallon and Breezy would be together, if Pete still would have found a soulmate. 

 

“Are you not going to ask me what my wish is?” Brendon says suddenly, and it feels like a bucket of cold water was just dumped on me. It’s probably just the wind. I breathe in. 

 

“What’s your wish?” 

 

And then, I pray that my name escapes his lips even if I know there’s no way he can ever wish for me. I look back at the sky and clench my jaw, willing myself to go deaf for thirty seconds, until after he speaks his answer. Brendon draws his legs to his chest, arms circling them, and rests his chin on his knees. 

 

“I wanna go to Seattle,” he says simply, and for a second it seems like nothing in the world makes sense. His answer seems so out of context, so irrelevant, so _stupid_ that I almost snort. I can’t believe I thought he’d wish for me. 

 

Well, I guess he didn’t wish for anyone else, either, but his soulmate’s a given. No need to wish for that. 

 

“Okay,” I hear myself say, not caring about whether he’ll be hurt by my lack of interest, and I stand up. “I’m cold.” 

 

He extends his hand and I grab it, helping him up, too.

 

“Me too,” he says, wrapping both arms around my middle and I feel his warmth seeping through his shirt, his heart beating close to mine. There’s no way I can be mad at him when he’s like this. There is too much pain in the world for me to ruin tonight; it can wait for tomorrow. This is another moment to freeze frame. I should probably make an album out of all those lost moments; call it _Ryan’s Failed Attempts At Being Happy._ But I forget about it when he looks up at me and I kiss him softly, feeling him smile against my mouth. 

 

“Happy New Year, Ry,” he whispers as our lips part, and it’s my turn to smile. 

 

“Happy New Year,” I whisper back and we kiss again, and, God, if every New Year’s could be like this, I’d spend all of them with him. 


	12. Paper Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand i'm back. it's been a month. i'm sorry. feel free to let me know what you think of... this.
> 
> also, [Pete's ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12157371) has been put up!

 

We spend months, hidden away from the world, away from the noise and frantic buzzing of the city, in the light of my bedroom. It’s almost as if we create our own universe within the thin walls of my apartment, between the books and stacks of records, the whispered promises and morning smiles. He kisses the dark, spidery veins on my hands, on my arms and neck; he makes me forget they’re not supposed to look that way, that I’m forsaken by Nature and everyone else. Soon, he matters more than them. All of them. He takes up my thoughts and the prayers that I don't utter, takes up my days and nights where our bodies tangle together, slow, like a dance to which neither of us really knows the steps but is beautiful purely because we are the ones creating it.

 

I watch him sleep to remind myself that he’s real, to remember the way his skin looks golden in the twilight sun, the shape of his lips and the rhythm of his breathing.

 

I stop going to the classes. With Tyler gone and Brendon in my bed, there’s no point in going back. It was a distraction from myself, and now I’ve found something else to be distracted by. Someone. 

 

Someone with brown eyes and matching hair, with smiles in his irises that I learn to decode, day after day. Someone shameless, spread out on my bed, naked and glowing, sheets tangled around his legs and waist like he belongs in a fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine instead of my bedroom. 

 

But he’s here.

 

He’s here, and I was wrong. 

 

He doesn’t craft masterpieces. He _is_ a masterpiece. Not perfect, but somehow even his flaws, the glitches in his system and the imperfect human he is seem too good to be true. For someone like me, anyway. 

 

He still slips out of bed some nights to go to work, and those moments start off unbearable. What if he doesn’t come back? What if none of this is real? 

 

But he always comes back and his clothes in my drawer are proof enough. He’s bringing in little pieces of himself, day by day, sinking his roots deeper and deeper in my life, and I learn not to mind. It’s okay. It’s alright. He’s mine. He comes back and lets me hold him again, quietly hums songs I’ve never heard until we’re both asleep, lost in each other. 

 

I let myself forget that we don’t belong together, that our blood doesn’t match, and it feels right. It feels like we’re right where we belong, him in my arms and my heart against his back. What matters now isn’t the colour of the blood pumping through my veins, what matters now is that my heart is beating at all. Never lonely, never afraid. The teary fifteen-year-old becomes but a blurred memory. I sleep soundly at night. 

 

He tells me he was born in April. Spring birthday. I try to remember. 

 

The only other birthday I’ve been celebrating since what feels like forever is El’s, ever since I got her. September 26th. And that’s not even her birthday; that’s the day I found her. 

 

I wonder where the tradition of giving gifts on birthdays came from. “You’re a year closer to dying, here’s something as an attempt to make up for it.” Stupid. 

 

Stupid, but this year I promised myself I’d make an effort. 

 

***

 

I look over at Brendon in the passenger seat. I’d expected questions but he’s smiling like an idiot so I forgive his lack of curiosity, just this time. Maybe I can make the surprise last a little longer, or maybe he already knows exactly where we’re going and trying to make me happy by pretending to be clueless. Either way, it’s worth it,  because we’re travelling together.

 

“So,” I start, and see him look at me from the corner of my eye. God, someone should invent self-driving cars so I can look at him instead of the road. “I know it’s your twenty-first and that we should be going to Vegas or New York or some shit like that.” A car tries to cut into my lane and I swear under my breath. No fucking manners.

 

“But we’re not,” he concludes for me, now looking straight ahead at the red Honda that must’ve spawned straight from hell to test my patience. Disappointingly enough, its licence plate doesn’t involve the number 666 and it doesn’t have tiny horns. Brendon’s voice is soothing, though. Always is. 

 

I chuckle. “No shit, Sherlock.” 

 

He punches me in the arm playfully as a road sign passes overhead; I glance at it before it’s gone, to make sure we’re in the right direction. Ending up in the wrong city _may_ be awkward. Not necessarily a bad thing, but definitely not the plan. “It’s a nice place. Think you’ll like it.” 

 

I’ve never been there, but he doesn’t need to know that for now; I’ve booked a hotel for two nights, and we’ll see from there. We can discover the city together. 

 

Brendon hums, grabbing the AUX cord. I let him partly because I trust him, but also because it’s his car, after all. The speakers crackle as he plugs the cord into his phone and he presses play. A familiar voice soon fills the small space, and a grin spreads across my face like it’s a reflex.

 

_“Let’s hope this one turns out pretty darn good, huh?”_

 

I mouth along, making a face like McCartney probably did when he was putting on his shitty American accent. Good ol’ Paul. Of course Brendon had to play that; I’ve made him put on too many Beatles records for him to forget. He’s clutching his phone in both hands, looking at me expectantly, a small smile playing on his lips. So I tell him what he already knows, just so that he can have the pleasure of knowing he was right.

 

“I fucking love this song.” 

 

He smiles wider, eyes bright, satisfied. I really do, though. This song’s the perfect blend of two emotions that no one thought could belong together. Defying the odds is becoming a habit as well as a challenge, now. 

 

There aren’t too many cars on the highway and we speed through the landscape as music blares from the speakers. 

 

I look over at Brendon, who’s nodding enthusiastically to the rhythm, playing a guitar only he can see. His phone slides off his lap to the side of the seat but he doesn’t seem to care, so I don’t either and mouth along to the words instead. It’s amazing how he always manages to make everything else but us disappear. We’ve got at least thirteen hours of driving ahead of us, but he’s already making them seem easy. Everything’s easier with him by my side, and I think we’ve proven that. 

 

I roll down my window and he does the same, only to the rhythm of the song. The whirring of the window somehow manages to match the music thanks to his expertise, but he looks so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh. He’s the only person I know that would think of doing something like that. The wind rushes into the car, messing up his hair, but he doesn’t seem to mind that either.

 

“You’re so fucking weird!” I yell above the music and the wind, and he grins at me. Eyes on the road, now. Eyes on the road. 

 

“I’ve always had a penchant for doing weird things,” he says, leaning towards me so that he doesn’t have to yell. Smart boy. I can smell his cologne. “Hence” — he motions between us — “this.” 

 

I open my mouth to protest but he kisses me instead, wicked smile against my lips, and I give in for a second before remembering that I, in fact, need to be driving. I push him back into his seat and he doesn’t fight me even if he could. He has before; we almost died. 

 

“Distracting the driver may cause an accident,” I say in my best news reporter voice before glancing his way, “especially if the distraction is called Brendon fucking Urie.” 

 

He lets out a short laugh and wipes his mouth before letting his head fall back against the headrest. The song’s come to an end and he clearly hasn’t planned anything to play next because there’s only silence. Or maybe the intro to this next song is ridiculously long. There’s silence. The soft humming of the engine. Silence. Me shifting gears. 

 

“I’m looking for my playlist,” he says eventually, eyes focused on the screen, and I don’t know why I wondered. He has a playlist for everything. It’s almost something he does automatically. There must be something calming about scrolling through the lyrics and melodies that are so familiar he might as well have written them himself, and something endearing about handpicking them out for the perfect occasion, the perfect drive, the perfect night, like flowers in a bouquet.

 

Playlists for lazy mornings in bed. For late nights shifts, for rainy days. For champagne at midnight, for thirteen-hour drives, for meteors speeding towards us at a pace no one could ever comprehend. For fake shooting stars. For wishes. He’s got a playlist for anything and everything.

 

He puts _Modern Love_ on and we sing along as loud as we can, windows down, speeding on the I-5 like our lives depend on it. 

 

Maybe they do. 

 

Brendon offers to take over four hours in, but I refuse. If we’re gonna make it to Portland by tonight, we need to use our energy the best we can. Not that I know what the best way of using it is, but four hours seem too short compared to the nine hours we still need to go. 

 

I tell him to sleep, which he, to no one’s surprise, doesn’t. His argument is “What’s the point in having a road trip if we’re just gonna sleep all the way through it,” and I don’t know what to tell him because he does have a point. I don’t tell him that I’m glad he’s awake; as beautiful as he is asleep, there’s just _something_ more when he’s not. Like, we can talk. 

 

Yeah, talking’s nice. We never run out of things to talk about. 

 

He tells me about the road trip he had with high school friends, right before he graduated and moved to LA. There’s a hint of nostalgia in his tone as he speaks, as if the wind on his skin right now reminds him of the way he felt back then. I picture him, standing in the back of a pickup truck, whooping and shouting as they drive down the freeway like the careless teenagers he and his friends must’ve been, once. 

 

I tell him about finding El in a cardboard box on an unusually cold evening in late September, almost four years ago now. She was the smallest puppy I’d ever seen. It was tough to decide between loneliness and financial stability then, but hey, I’m still alive. Which means I probably made the right choice. He smiles and I bet he’s picturing her, running around my apartment, just like she still does sometimes. 

 

We don’t talk about love, though. We never really do.

 

I finally let him drive when I’m too tired to focus on how many lanes there are on the freeway. I ask him to put on some music, which he doesn’t seem to hear either because he’s deaf or I’m falling asleep. It’s difficult to weigh the possibilities when my head already feels like a brick. I just really hope he actually knows how to drive. 

 

 

***

 

There’s a hand on my shoulder. 

 

There’s a hand on my shoulder, and it’s shaking me awake, and I don’t like it. 

 

“Hey, Ry,” someone says in a low voice, as if we’re kids trying not to get caught after lights-out. I was always the one speaking too loud. “Hey, we’re here.” 

 

I force my eyes open and it’s Brendon, standing outside my car door with his hand on my shoulder.It’s dark and I look around. We’re in the parking lot of a motel. A few lights, fewer cars. 

 

“Are we in Portland already? What time is it?” 

 

Brendon doesn’t answer, a childish, conspiratorial look on his face. Fuck. What has that idiot been up to again? 

 

“Weed,” he says triumphantly. I rub my eye as if that would make what he’s saying clearer. I don’t think that’s answering any of my questions, is it? 

 

“I don’t have any,” I tell him. He’s the one who smokes occasionally, not me. Brendon shakes his head like I’m stupid. Am I the one who’s high? Jesus Christ, what’s happening? “Where are we?” 

 

“No, listen. We’re _in_ Weed.” 

 

He sounds… excited.

 

I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car, making him take a step back. He must be out of his mind. We’re lucky he didn’t crash the fucking car. I slam the door closed and stare at him.

 

He speaks again, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Weed, California.” 

 

That’s it. I’ll murder him. 

 

I look at him like he’s the worst case of a lost cause and he flashes his sweetest smile at me, to which I roll my eyes. 

 

“I can’t believe you,” I mutter as he opens the back door to reach for our bags. There’s a Nevada shaped sticker on the window that says “Home.” Huh. Never noticed that before. “I should’ve stayed home and let El come with you instead.” 

 

I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness at the mention of her name, even though she’s probably holding a grudge against me right now. Smart fucking dog. This is the first time we’re apart for more than a day since I got her; I’m not much of a traveller. She’s at one of Brendon’s friends for the week and even if she’s not aggressive and Brendon promised me she’d be safe, I can’t shake the bad feeling I have about it. 

 

Brendon rubs his eyes as we walk towards the reception desk. His hair is sticking up in random places, probably from him running his hands in it in excitement. That’s just what he does. Apparently, being in a town called Weed is beyond thrilling to him. The stoner in him is worshipping this day already. 

 

Oh well. We’re here for his birthday anyway. 

 

The lady at the reception seems thoroughly unimpressed with us, especially when she realises that the lines on my arms are clearly not something I can scrub off. Brendon checks in for us and I look around. There’s an ugly painting of a cat hung up on the orange wall behind her, along with an old clock. According to it, it’s half past eleven. Huh. Earlier than I thought it was. 

 

The lady slams the key on the desk without another word, waking me from my daydreaming. She goes back to slowly typing on her computer, not caring that she just pulled me back into reality. Her nails are painted bright red and she’s wearing too many rings, all of which seem older than I am. Maybe she’s writing her autobiography, like any other insignificant human does at some point. Don’t we all like to feel important? Hers probably involves a lot of children and a drunk husband for her to end up in this place, but there’s no time to dwell on that. 

 

Brendon says something about visiting the Weed Museum tomorrow as we walk away from the desk, and I refrain from commenting. Lord knows what would be in that museum, and, more importantly, what Brendon would do with it. 

 

The only thing he bothers taking off as we walk into the small room is his shirt. Logically, one would think that shoes are to be taken off first, but Brendon clearly defies the rules of logic as he drops the shirt on the ground and falls headfirst onto the bed, asleep before he hits the pillow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s dead. Not getting laid tonight, then. He’ll definitely whine about it tomorrow, but it’s his fault for refusing to sleep earlier. No sympathy there. 

 

I pull off his shoes — an old pair of black Converse he’s weirdly attached to — and discard them in a corner of the room. His socks are mismatched, which isn’t really a surprise, but one of them is mine. So _that’s_ why I couldn’t find it anywhere. He’s the goddamn sock gremlin. 

 

I let Brendon and his socks be and pull my dead phone out of my pocket. I find the charger in one of the bags before realising that, for some stupid reason, all the plugs are on the side of the room opposite to the bed. Oh well. I plug it in and leave it there to go take a shower. 

 

The water turns out either too hot or too cold so I shower as fast as I can, drying myself off with one of the towels the place provides. It’s not too bad. I grab a random shirt from one of the bags we left on the floor as I walk out of the bathroom and put it on; it’s one of mine, but it smells like him. Hell _, I_ probably smell like him. I’ve been using his shampoo ever since he brought it over, for some reason that I don’t look into too much. It just smells nice. 

 

As I finally get into bed and put my head on the pillow, I realise there’s no way in hell I’m going to fall asleep because of the hours I spent dozing off in the car, so I reach down to Brendon’s pocket to fish his phone out. Its battery is nearly full and for once I’m thankful for him always insisting on charging _his_ phone in the car. At least he’s got good music. I unlock it and start scrolling through the playlists, my back against the headboard. He names them after dates or places, sometimes both, but there are so many that it takes a while before I find the one I want. 12.30.07. 

 

I smile at the title of the first song on the list and glance at Brendon, who shifts in his sleep. He’s probably dreaming about weed, because he smiles an almost blissful smile before shifting again. I chuckle and shake my head for no one to see. _That boy_. 

 

I reach for my earphones and rest my head back against the wall, letting my eyes follow the soft stripes of orange light the bulb outside our window casts on the bed and over Brendon's bare skin. Sinatra’s voice fills my ears, almost too recognisable, his white-toothed smile and bright blue eyes audible in the way he’s singing. I understand why Brendon loves him. This song reminds me of when we walked home that night, laughing in the streets, tipsy on champagne that we didn’t drink. Brendon’s got an eye — well, an ear — for those kinds of things; he captures moments and feelings in music, like a painter with landscapes and people. He sketches with tempos and major keys, paints with voices and tones. I close my eyes and let him paint the picture as Sinatra croons. 

 

Croon on, Frank. Croon on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs in this chapter: 
> 
> I'm Down - The Beatles
> 
> Modern Love - David Bowie
> 
> I've Got You Under My Skin - Frank Sinatra


	13. Northern Sea

The familiar weight of Brendon’s arm around me when I wake up proves that I have not been strangled by the earphone cord during the night, which is definitely a good thing. I don’t open my eyes, though, just roll over to face him and feel his warmth. It’s familiar now, to wake up next to him; I’m always cold, thanks to the ridiculously long limbs the rest of my body can’t manage to keep warm. It might also have something to do with my blood colour, though no one’s ever bothered to fund studies about that. Brendon helps, though, whether he knows it or not. Sleeping with him curled up against me means I don't need two layers of blankets anymore. 

 

I can tell he’s awake because his thumb is tracing small circles on my back and I picture his lazy, sleepy smile without even having to open my eyes. It’s the fruit of habit, almost; a hundred memories blurring into one. The room is quiet apart from the muted rumbling of something that is probably a motorbike outside our door and I can see the morning light even through my eyelids. It’s peaceful. Mornings like these are why it’s worth it. The faint warmth of the sun rays compared to that of his skin, all the time in the world. 

 

Well, if we want to get to Seattle, maybe not. 

 

But just a few more minutes; I want to stretch them into hours for us only, to take every second and make it last twice, three, ten times as long. For the world to stop and the two of us to live in that little window of time, just for a little while. Just so I can remember him. 

 

Suddenly, the weight lifts off of me and something tugs gently at the collar of my shirt. Warm lips come to press against mine, softly, and I pretend not to react but he kisses me again and I can’t help but smile, feeling him do the same against my mouth. I’m not really sure how I once had the willpower to push him away, because he drains every ounce of energy I’d need to fight back. His hand sneaks to the waistband of my boxers as he moves to kiss my neck and I open my eyes to look at him. He pulls back, like a child that’s been caught stealing sweets from the cupboard, minus the guilt. Brendon’s eyes are still full of sleep but the smirk decorating his lips is clearly saying something else that I know too well; he’s always horny in the morning. I roll away from him before shoving my pillow at his face. His hand falls limply on the mattress between us. 

 

“Go take a shower,” I advise Brendon, hearing my own voice heavy with sleep. “You reek.” 

 

He doesn’t, really, but if I don’t get him out of bed right now then we might end up fucking again, which is exactly what he wants, and I haven’t forgotten about last night yet. Brendon props himself on his elbows and pretends to be offended, his mouth dropping open slightly. “I can’t believe you’re failing to appreciate my manly scent, Ross.” He looks my way, eyes soft despite the sarcastic tone, and I want to pull him to me, to run my fingers through his hair and for us to stay like that for a while, just a while, until the sun burns out. He pushes himself upright, bare back against the headboard. “And good morning to you too.” 

 

I roll my eyes and snatch my pillow back, burying my face in it so he doesn’t see me smiling; that’d be too easy for him. This is a constant tug-of-war between us, and he wins too easily each time. Not this time. The mattress creaks as Brendon shifts to get up and I close my eyes, tucking the pillow back under my head. I might fall asleep again; the sunlight feels warm on my face. I guess I can understand why cats like it so much. It feels like every cell on the surface of my skin is gorging itself on all of the good, healthy stuff that’s in the pale morning rays. Who knows, maybe I’ll even tan. 

 

I hear Brendon make his way around the bed to our bags, where he fumbles for what sounds like far too long. Christ. I want to tell him that he can just take any shirt, but he knows that already and I can't seem to muster the energy for my brain to think up the right words or for my mouth to form them. It’s like the sun is a fucking anaesthetic. Not the worst kind, though. 

 

Something clicks and whirrs and I open an eye. That is the unmistakeable sound of the polaroid camera I found in a flea market a few months ago; it was ridiculously cheap and came with a pack of film, which I have been preserving for the right time. It seems like _someone_ decided it was the right time. Brendon is standing at the end of the bed, the camera in one hand and a photograph in the other, shaking it to dry it. He better not have wasted it photographing his shoes.

 

“I was saving those,” I mutter, closing my eyes again. I could get up and snatch them back, but that would mean engaging in a war that would inevitably lead to, once again, what he wants. And I’m not giving in, not until Seattle. 

 

“For what? The end of the world?” 

 

I am detecting a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but he has a point. I’m not sure what I was saving them for. There’s a point where it doesn’t get better, only worse. You might just spend the rest of your life at the bottom, remisniscing about the good times and watching the memories fade, powerless. I realise that I don’t want to be that guy. Let the boy take the goddamned pictures, let them be reminders. Maybe I’ll take a few myself; they might be the closest I get to freezing time, the closest shot I get at capturing happiness in one frame. Brendon sets the camera and the photograph down next to the small TV and starts undoing the button of his jeans. 

 

It’s strange, having something to look forward to. It’s almost like I have a purpose, after six years of not knowing what the hell I was doing in this world. Destabilising, to say the least, but also somehow grounding, like maybe the only purpose to all this is to enjoy feeling this way while it lasts. 

 

I look at Brendon again. He’s in his briefs now, pulling off his jeans, and I realise with a groan that he’s about to strip naked. Right here. He’s never gonna let this go, huh. Guess that’s 1-0 for him. I let myself look at him anyway, even if it’s probably the worst thing I can do right now. I hope I don’t get hard. Another stupid wish; there are too many small details about him that are too exquisite to be ignored. 

 

His hair is too long and has been for a while, falling into his eyes too often, but he never bothers to get it cut. Says it makes him feel sexier, though I suspect it might just be because he’s lazy. That’s alright with me. His skin is smooth, slightly darker than mine; he claims it’s because he’s of Hawaiian descent, and I haven’t decided whether I believe him or not yet. There are faint lines on his stomach that proves that he’s been working out, somehow. It’s almost unfair that he barely needs to do anything to stay in shape, while I can’t even _get_ in shape.I prop myself on my elbows and let my eyes wander on his chest, down to his navel to the waistband of his briefs, which he pulls off in one swift movement before locking eyes with me. My eyes travel right back up, and I feel my cheeks burn even if this isn’t the first time. There’s _something_ about him that always makes me feel like I’m stealing those glances, even though he’s giving them away.

 

Brendon smirks, not a hint of self-consciousness in his expression. Forget about giving glances away. He’s bribing me to take them. 

 

“Enjoying the view?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, lying back down while trying to keep my voice as serious as I can. Brendon chuckles before making his way to the bathroom. I’m half hard now and thanking God for the blanket because there would be no turning back if he saw me. I expect the bathroom door to click shut, but it doesn’t, which is a guarantee that he’ll walk out just as naked as he went in. He will undoubtedly jerk off, and he wants me to hear it. Bastard. 2-0. 

 

“Pity you won’t join me,” Brendon calls from inside the bathroom. I hear the water turn on and hit the plastic floor of the shower. “You’re missing ou-” 

 

He interrupts himself with a string of swear words, which can only mean one thing. I chuckle. Ah, yes. The shitty shower. There’s no way I’ll join him in there and I stare up instead, because it feels like the best way to try to ignore the fact that he’s naked just a few feet away. The ceiling has a crack that runs along the whole length of the room. I wonder how long this motel has been here for. Years. Decades, maybe. Longer than me. 

 

I look around for Brendon’s phone and spot it in between the headboard and the bed; it must've fallen in there during the night, though I’m not sure how because I don’t move around much when I sleep. Brendon’s wandering hands must’ve knocked it there, then. He has a bad habit of reaching for whatever’s next to him while he sleeps. Sometimes it’s a pillow, sometimes it’s El. Most of the time, it’s me. I’ve learned not to mind. I reach for the phone, hoping it still has battery, which it does because the screen lights up right away, showing the time. It’s 9am. 

 

“Fuck,” I whisper, sitting up and untangling my legs from the blanket, feeling the warmth that I’d managed to accumulate drain away rapidly. If we want to get there tonight, we need to leave soon. The carpet feels rough beneath my bare feet as they touch the ground, like it’s been washed too many times and stomped on even more. I leave the phone on the bed. Brendon’s shirt from yesterday is still abandoned on the ground, so I pick it up as I make my way to our bags and throw it in one of them; we can fold them neatly later, or never. 

 

The camera’s still on the TV stand and I take it, too. It needs to be wrapped in at least two shirts for protection, but I don’t pack it up just yet. Next to the camera is the photograph Brendon took just minutes ago, and I pick it up. It’s definitely not of his shoes. 

 

What takes up most of the picture is the whiteness of the sheets from the bed and the light streaming in from in between the blinds, but his intentions for this shot were clear. I look so much younger with my eyes closed, and the sunlight on my skin makes it look lighter than it is, tinting the whole scene with white gold. It feels intimate, somehow, like he’s captured something more than just some guy in a motel room, like he’s managed to inject the way he feels into all the pigments of the picture. Like it’s not just _some_ guy. My heart misses a beat. 

 

He’s right. Nothing should wait ’til the end of the world. 

 

I put the photograph back where it was for him to find before crossing the distance separating me from the little bathroom. It’s nice to think that it’s something he’ll want to keep, even if he might not. It’s not an amazing picture, but here’s to hoping he sees more to it than just the overexposure of the sheets. 

 

I look into the bathroom. Steam is fogging up the small mirror and his figure can be vaguely distinguished through the semi-transparent shower curtain, a body that I’ve explored time and time again. He’s singing something from a musical over the sound of the water, though I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s a duet. He likes duets. 

 

Click. Whirr. The picture comes out white, like they all do. 

 

I’m not waiting for the world to end. 

 

Not anymore. 

 

 

***

 

 

Brendon stands by the hotel window as I dig into my backpack; Seattle is failing to live up to its reputation, a grey but rainless sky hanging overhead. It’s cold, though, so I’m trying to find a jacket in the mess that this backpack has become in two days. God knows how it happened. 

 

“Have you seen my—”

 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Brendon says suddenly. I look up, and he hasn’t moved an inch, hands in his pockets. His tone is serious and it worries me because I’ve never heard him like this. Not when he was mad at me, not when we’d gotten kicked out of a record store for singing too loud. His voice sounds unsteady. _He_ sounds unsteady. I walk to him, letting him know I’m listening. His jaw is clenched and he refuses to look away from the glass.  The room suddenly feels even colder than it was, and I hear my heart pounding in my ears. I’ve never heard anything good after words like those. 

 

“There was this kid,” he manages, and I can feel the tension in his whole body. “Spencer.” The word comes out hoarse, like it's painful to pronounce, but there are no tears in his eyes and I want to hold him and tell him that he doesn’t need to tell me now. That no matter what it is, we can get through it together. That he’ll be okay. He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Opens them again. 

 

“He was— He was my best friend growing up, and he—” Brendon lets out a small chuckle. It fogs the window up a bit. I want to hug him, but I don’t. “He always said he wanted to come to Seattle. To see the— the Northern Sea, he called it. Swore the water here was better than anywhere else, or whatever. It made no sense, but it did to him.”

 

There’s a feeling of dread in my stomach that’s difficult to shake. I have no idea what he’s about to tell me, no idea if that will change something between us at all. I really fucking hope it doesn’t. Brendon presses his lips together and I want to hold his hand but they’re obstinately in his pockets, out of reach.  _He'_ s out of reach. His mind is somewhere else; in the streets of Vegas, in the school he wanted to leave behind so desperately, in his best friend's house. He's there now. 

 

“Drunk driver on the way home ten years ago,” he says finally, voice breaking. “We usually walked back together, but I was sick that day.” He pauses to look at me. His eyes are wide, his lower lip trembling. “They say he didn’t suffer at all. Didn’t even see the car coming.” 

 

There are times actions speak louder than words; other times where words are wiser than actions. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should hold him or apologise or leave him alone, don’t know if he’s heard too many apologies for them to mean anything anymore, or if wrapping my arms around him would seem like a weak attempt at comfort because I don’t know what to say. And it’s true. I don’t know what to say. 

 

You’d think I’d be familiar with grief by now, black blood and all. Like we’d be old friends, laughing and slapping each other on the back on summer evenings. But we’re not. Grief is a shapeshifter — prowling in the dark corners of your mind until something brings those memories back, a new kind of pain each time. You never really learn to deal with pain. 

 

But I pull him in anyway, and his arms wrap around me tight, his head buried in my neck. He’s shaking. 

 

“I should’ve died too,” he chokes out, words muffled against my shirt, and I hold him closer. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve—” His sentence gets lost in his sobs and I close my eyes. It's too painful to see him like this. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I breathe into his hair, and he doesn’t answer but I feel his heart beat against mine, and for a split second I can’t help but thank the Heavens that he wasn’t the one on that street, on that day. That he wasn’t the one who died. “I’m sorry.”

 

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong and sick and twisted to be grateful that it was someone else, but he’s the only one here, with me. No one else would be here. 

 

And I realise that it doesn’t matter who died on the fifteenth of March two thousand and one, because the person I want for the rest of my life is right here, in my arms, in a shitty hotel room, in a city that neither of us know. I don’t whisper the words I know shouldn’t say. I just hold him. 


	14. Like Lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter title... i'll leave it to you to find out what it is if you don't realise right away. 
> 
> this was really nice to write and i particularly love this chapter, i hope you do too!
> 
> also: i made a playlist with the songs i associate/that go well with this fic that you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/eliaaa2801/playlist/3qOL7GC3wrjNY9GqdK8vDk)! i'll be adding on as i go :)

Humans were built to be creatures that survive. Humans were designed to put their own needs first, for their survival instincts to take over whenever they are deemed needed; and so, by nature, we are selfish. We’re selfish creatures even when we spend our lives working against our very core, even when it’s the last thing needed when the ones we’d give everything up for are in pain. We’re selfish. And I’m not an exception. But I try.

 

The humid boards creak under our shoes and Brendon’s hand feels warm in mine despite the ocean wind that’s biting at us mercilessly. I never thought April would be this cold up North, but just this once this temperature seems more fitting than the mild LA weather. The waterfront is minutes from our hotel and I find myself glad to have chosen it, no matter how shitty it might be. At least we’re near the sea. Birds shoot across the pale blue sky, swift shadows that, unlike us, don’t seem to be bothered by how strongly the wind blows. 

 

Brendon’s tears ran dry in my arms back in our hotel room but his eyes are still clouded as we walk along the pier, like he’s seeing things that no one else can.

 

And I realise that I’m not the only one who’s known loss. Because all he must be picturing right now is a wide-eyed ten year old clinging to the white metal barrier, desperately trying to peek at the ocean behind it, for just a glimpse of the blue immensity. The Northern Sea that he’ll never grow up to see. And, just for a split second, I feel Brendon’s pain. All the could’ve beens and the plans that disappeared, shattered by the car hurtling towards his best friend. And I don’t know if that’s worse than losing someone you never knew.

 

“Hey.” 

 

He looks back at me, stopping in his tracks, hand still in mine. His eyes take a split second to get back into focus but even then, I can tell he’s somewhere else. Maybe he spent the whole ride here hoping this wasn’t the destination, maybe he'd just wished for it but not meant it. Maybe I completely fucked up. The wind messes up his hair. It takes me a second to remember what I wanted to say. 

 

“The best thing you can do right now is be here, you know. For him. Look at all of this,” — I gesture around, at the city and the concrete structure behind us — “And make it worth it.” 

 

A weak smile appears on his lips and he squeezes my hand lightly, his eyes flicking down to his shoes. 

 

“Sorry, I just— He would’ve loved this, Ryan. I can’t help but think about him. I know we’re here together, but—” He lets out a lifeless chuckle and I know I was right. This moment is about Spencer, and even I owe him that much. I’m trying. Brendon shrugs. “I guess I just want to remember him.” 

 

“Let’s do that, then,” I say, pulling him toward the fence, towards the sea; it’s a weak attempt at making him feel better, but I’m not sure what else to do. “C’mon.” The water is peaceful beneath our feet, lapping gently against the pillars holding up the boardwalk. Brendon puts both hands on the railing and exhales, looking out at the ocean and at the small island disturbing the smooth line of the horizon. I stand behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, making the most of the few inches I have on him. My chin settles on his shoulder; I wonder if he can feel my heart against his back. 

 

“Tell me a story. One of yours. A happy one.” 

 

And he does. He tells me about how Spencer moved into the house next-door when they were just kids, how they’d walked to school together as soon as they were old enough to walk by themselves. 

 

“He always managed to make me laugh,” he says, clearly trying to keep his voice even. “When shit got tougher at home, he’d always be there, right across the fence. I’d go to his house and we’d play for hours. We’d build— We’d build pillow forts.” There’s a fondness in his tone that I’ve never heard before, and it makes me hold him tighter, because he sounds vulnerable. It’s as if those memories are bringing him right back to that yard, to that house in downtown Vegas.“He was the knight and I was the archer and we defended our castle from enemies.” His hands leave the railing and he sticks them in his pockets. The sun is beginning to lower on the horizon, but the wind is still strong. It’s getting colder. “It’d just be stuffed animals we placed around the fort, but, God, we had fun. We spent hours in there. Nothing else really mattered, you know? We were just kids.” 

 

I hum, my cheek against his ear, holding him close. I remember bits and pieces from when I was a kid, too, but no memories stand out like his. It must be nice to have those things to cling onto, things to look back to and remember with a smile. I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at the nostalgia in his voice; no one remembers me like this. No one’s ever talked about me like this. As soon as my blood turned the wrong colour, any memories of me were erased from people’s minds. Because no one has room for someone with no future. 

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a mother with two little kids walking along the pier. The kids are chasing each other around, giggling, their footsteps heavy on the humid boards; the mother smiles at them wearily, and I catch myself wondering if she’d be a better one than mine was, if her kids were to become Ashens someday. I hold Brendon closer. The smell of the ocean mingles with his— his usual shampoo and something that reminds me of summer nights on the roof of my building. Something safe. 

 

“Archer, huh?” 

 

There must be more sarcasm in my tone than intended because he turns and looks at me, eyebrows raised.My arms loosen around him. “What, you don’t believe I can shoot arrows?” 

 

I smile at him. “No, not at all. I’m sure you’re great at archery,” I say, and he smiles back. “Especially to shoot stuffed animals.” He shoots me an accusatory look and I lean forward to kiss him before he has time to retort. His lips are warm and he relaxes into the kiss, and some part of me hopes that I managed to make it all feel better. And that we can stop talking about Spencer, because I can’t bear to see that kind of sadness in his eyes. He doesn’t deserve to feel that way.

 

But I think he just needed to get it out somehow. The guilt that’s been plaguing him for a decade, the grief. Stepping into this city must be something like absolution, fulfilling a dream he took on from someone the ten year old he was thought he had to be there for. I really hope I can make him forget this tomorrow. For a day, at least. It’s his birthday tomorrow.

 

I glance behind us, where I thought I spotted a bench earlier. The mother and her kids are further away now, climbing the steps leading back to the city. It’s getting colder; there are less people on the pier. If we huddle, we might be able to resist the wind for a little while, just enough to see the last rays of sunlight. I let him go and take a step back, towards the little alcove I spotted in the concrete structure. “You wanna see something cool?” 

 

Brendon lifts an eyebrow and seems amused, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, though not quite replacing all of the nostalgia. God, I wish I could just climb into his head and push all the bad things out. I hear him chuckle.

 

“What, are you hiding a bow somewhere? I’m not shooting anyone.” He pauses for a second and seems to consider what he just said. “Actually, I’m not shooting anyone but you. It better not be a bow.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, smirking slightly. “For your sake.” 

 

“No, idiot,” I say, pointing towards the horizon, at the reddening sun. He takes a few steps towards me before turning to follow my gaze. “The sunset.” 

 

He looks back at me and a smile replaces the smirk, a mix of gratitude and affection that fills my chest with warmth, even if the air around us keeps getting colder. 

 

“Fuck,” he swears as we sit down, and I try not to do the same. The boards of the bench are colder than anticipated and our pants thinner than anticipated, apparently. Brendon shudders. “My ass is freezing.” 

 

“Maybe I can do something about that.” Brendon looks at me and I stare back at him, processing what I just said, but he doesn’t miss a beat. 

 

“Later. It’s too cold here.”

 

His tone is so casual that I can’t help but laugh, and he does too, mouth corners turning upwards. He inches closer to me, our shoulders touching. His hand slips in mine and our fingers lace together automatically, like it’s something we’ve done for years now. I look at him, at the way the last rays of sun are kissing his skin, and I can’t believe he’s gotten me to think about him in terms of years. Fuck. I’m in too deep. 

 

“Fine,” I say finally, turning my eyes back to the sea. I still feel the smile on my face, his words replaying in my head. “Later it is. Didn’t know you were ever one to turn that down, though.” 

 

He nudges me. “I’m full of surprises.” 

 

The boardwalk is empty now, and it feels good to have it for the two of us, even if we’re just an insignificant detail in the bigger picture. We fall silent and I feel Brendon’s head on my shoulder, listen to the wind rush past us. The sun is almost set, dyeing the water with fire and the sky with warmth, and I wonder if it’s possible to feel the same way forever. 

 

“Maybe we could stay here, you know,” he says quietly. “Settle down.” 

 

I hum. “One day.”

 

It feels like a promise. Neither of us have any strings in LA. We could travel the whole world with nothing but our two backpacks and each other, or we could get a place that’s not his, not mine — a place to call ours. Right here. Seattle. And maybe here I can start feeling like the grey veins are just part of me, instead of who I am. 

 

We stay like that for a while, basking in the beauty of the scene and my heart feels so full that I don’t want to use words to explain it. This isn’t a moment to dissect. This is something to live and to remember. I want to lock this moment away for as long as my mind is intact.

 

But the cold ends up taking over and I shudder, the wind finally cutting through my jacket. Brendon lifts his head off my shoulder and looks at me, frowning slightly. 

 

“You wanna head back?”

 

“No,” I hear myself say. “It’s fine.” It’s worth the chills if it means staying like this a little longer. 

 

“It’s not fine, Ryan,” he says, “You’re fucking freezing. Your hand feels like an icicle.” 

 

His hand does feel abnormally warm in mine. Huh. Maybe my jacket is shittier than I thought. Maybe it’s a long-term side effect of being an Ashen.

 

“But—”

 

“Nope,” he says, moving to take off his own jacket, and I catch his wrist to stop him. There’s no way I’ll have him sick on his goddamned birthday. I sigh.

 

“Okay, fine. Let’s head back.” Brendon looks satisfied, shoving his arm back into his sleeve. “But only ‘cause I don’t want your birthday wish to be a sneeze.” 

 

He smirks. “It won’t be.” 

 

Brendon leans forward and plants a kiss on my lips before standing up and I follow suit, our hands finding each other automatically. He starts towards the steps that’ll lead us back to the city, but I pull on his hand, taking in the view one last time. The island is dark on the horizon; the sun’s disappeared completely, leaving the sky empty above our heads. He looks back at me inquiringly.

 

“What do you think’s behind it?” 

 

“The island?” 

 

“No, the sea. My mom used to tell me there was a whole other world behind the sea. A world better than ours.” 

 

And suddenly, a vision from too long ago appears in front of my eyes; sand between my toes, my mother laughing at something my father had said, her scarf floating in the wind. The endless ocean, stretching out as far as I could see. Everything seemed perfect back then; I didn’t understand how a world better than ours could exist. Why it would need to exist; it’s funny how ironic life can be. I bet proving me wrong was delightful. 

 

“Maybe we can go there someday,” Brendon says, pulling me out of the memory, and I don’t tell him how grateful I am. He looks out at the sea again, eyes sweeping the scene as if he’s trying to remember it just like I do, an almost wistful smile on his lips. “I wanna travel with you. See Europe and the Northern lights.” He nods towards the water, towards the island and beyond it, and he looks pensive for a moment. “Maybe the other world can wait. There’s a whole lot of this one we haven’t seen yet.” 

 

I squeeze his hand and we head back to the hotel, and all I want to remember is the colour of the sun above the water and the flecks of gold in his eyes. How soft his voice was when he said we could stay here, settle. How that made me feel. My life used to be divided into two periods: before my blood turned black, and after it did. I look at him, and I’m not so sure anymore.

 

***

 

Brendon gets rid of his jacket, dropping it on the bed before kicking his shoes off and walking to the window. Apprehension grips me, as if that one pane of glass represents the grief from Brendon’s past that I can’t seem to erase. As if it’ll bring back the tears and the guilt. It’s stupid. It’s just a window. He turns back to me and tugs on his own shirt before sitting down on the bed and letting himself fall back with a sigh. The mattress creaks nastily under his weight. 

 

“God, I’m exhausted.”

 

I lift an eyebrow and look up at him from where I’m crouching, untying my laces. God, I hate shoes like these. Brendon eyes me, looking somewhat puzzled. “What?” 

 

I shrug, feeling the knot giving way. “Dunno.” I stand back up, kicking off my shoes too; they land next to his with a thud. “Turning it down twice? Unlike you.” 

 

Brendon props himself on his elbows and glares at me. He looks so offended that I almost laugh and walk up to the bed, sticking my hands in my pockets casually. Brendon narrows his eyes at me. 

 

“Who said I was turning you down?” 

 

“Thought you just said—”

 

But I don’t get to finish my sentence because his hands find the collar of my shirt and pull me down towards him, our lips crashing together, and I give in. 

 

I always give in, eventually. 


	15. At The Brink Of Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on a roll, honestly. 
> 
> i also just can't seem to keep a finished chapter in my drafts for more than twenty-four hours. go figure. 
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy :)

“A market?” 

 

Brendon sounds amused as we stand at the entrance of Pike Place Market, people walking past us, grumbling about the two idiots standing in the middle of the way. Shit. Does he have some kind of phobia of markets? 

 

“Farmer’s market, to be precise,” I say, glancing at the middle aged man plucking his guitar by the entrance, sitting on a tiny stool. “Figured you’d love to buy a, uh,” — I look around for inspiration and spot an old board over Brendon’s shoulder — “live lobster for your twenty-first birthday.” 

 

Brendon laughs and hits me in the arm playfully, and I frown at him exaggeratedly, feigning shock. “What, you don’t have that tradition? Live lobsters are _essential_ , Brendon.” 

 

His eyebrows knit together and he seems to think for a moment, looking more serious than I know him to be. “Well, no, but we do have—” 

 

I never find out what he does have, though, because he’s interrupted by the guy on his stool who starts singing about a lost country love louder than it should be allowed. Brendon’s eyes widen with surprise, quickly replaced by something I identify as mild horror. “Jesus.” 

 

I grab Brendon’s hand and quickly pull him towards the inside of the market, glancing over my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here before he starts singing about fucking a truck.” 

 

He follows me and I hear his laugh, filling my chest and my head, sending electricity through my limbs. I feel light. The gallery is longer than expected, stretching as far as the eye can see, with stalls on each side of the main alley. It smells faintly of fish, which isn’t surprising considering the sign I saw just minutes ago. 

 

I look at Brendon. “So, what do you wanna do?” 

 

A woman bumps into my shoulder before he can answer. She’s carrying more bags than seems physically possible and dragging a little kid behind her; she looks up at me, face puffed up and flushed. Her line-like eyebrows turn into a frown and she scowls. She reminds me of a pug. Squashed-in face, just less cute. And more angry, by the look of it.

 

“Watch where you’re going, idiot!”

 

I don’t have time to be offended or tell her that it was in fact _she_ that walked right into me because her eyes widen as she spots the veins on my neck. My hand flies up to it, as if I’d be able to cover anything she hasn’t already seen. Her lip curls and she grabs her kid’s hand, pulling him away like I have the plague. 

 

“Come, now.” 

 

The kid obeys, but his eyes stay fixed on me until him and his mother disappear between all the other people milling about, going by their daily business. I can almost hear the conversation that’ll ensue. He’ll ask his mother about the guy who had scary veins, and she’ll tell him that he’s never to talk to people like that; that we’re bad people. “Why?” He’ll say, and she’ll never be able to give him an answer, because she doesn’t know, either. Just because we’re different. Most of the time, it’s reason enough. They don’t bother to look beyond that. 

 

I turn back to Brendon, intent on repeating my question, but stop before I can start and stare at him. He’s livid, his mouth a hard line. My hand reaches out towards his shoulder.

 

“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” 

 

“How many more times do I have to see you go through this bullshit and pretend it’s okay, Ryan?” 

 

God, I’m so lucky to have him. He has the fire I never had. 

 

But I feel a knot forming in my stomach nonetheless; once again, I don’t tell him that he’s the only one who’s ever dared getting this close. That this is my every day, on days where I decide not to stay home and confront the world with, well, me. Because somehow, the light of my bedroom every morning has started to make him blind to who I am. What I am. I swallow, hang my head and let my hand drop from his shoulder.

 

“This isn’t about me.” 

 

“What?” 

 

I look back up at him, trying to seem as confident as I can, so that he knows I’m the one in charge right now. “Today, it’s not about me.” I take a deep breath and notice just how bright his eyes are in the yellow light of the stalls, even if dark strands of hair have fallen over them. “It’s about you, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone or anything ruin it.” 

 

Brendon exhales slowly and looks around, and for a second I think he’s about to kiss me but he gestures to my collar instead. Smart guy. Kissing me here would probably get us both kicked out. 

 

“We gotta— We gotta do something about that,” he says, jaw clenched. I can still hear the suppressed fury in his tone. He swallows. “Find you a scarf or something.”

 

I nod. It is a good idea, and I feel stupid for not having thought of it sooner. A scarf is relevant here, not out of place like it would be in LA. We walk further along the alley, my hands firmly in my pockets; we can’t hold hands here, even if I want to lace my fingers with his, to make sure he’s real and to calm him down. But we can’t. Not after the look of absolute disgust I just got. 

 

Brendon’s eyes scan the stalls and he stops suddenly. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

He’s still looking towards the end of the gallery, though I can’t figure out what he’s looking for, or what he’s spotted. “What’s wrong?” Anxiety suddenly finds its way into my mind, tightening my stomach back into a knot. What if the woman called the police on me? Fuck, what if they’re going to take me away? Way to go to make Brendon bail me out of jail on his own birthday. 

 

But he turns his head back towards me, and I see nothing of the sort in his eyes, which provides the tiniest bit of relief. 

 

“I think we should split up,” he says quietly, and my stomach drops. What? Wasn’t he— Wasn’t he just furious about people being shitty? Did he just decide that it was better to have nothing to do with me? In fucking public? I feel nauseous. 

 

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Not on his birthday. I look up at him with all the energy I can muster, which isn’t much because my legs suddenly feel weak. 

 

“What?” 

 

Brendon frowns at me and his eyes widen with disbelief. “What? No! I meant we should look for a scarf separately,” he explains, and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. Fuck. Fuck this stupid brain. “We’d be more efficient,” he adds. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

 

I wave my hand at him dismissively, looking away. This is ridiculous. What kind of insecure dumbass— “Nothing, it’s just—”

 

“What, did you really think I was breaking up with you?” 

 

“No,” I say, but it’s the most unconvincing word I’ve ever heard in my life. Even El does better at pretending to like the landlord. Somewhere within me, I’m glad he thinks there is something to break up. Brendon grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look him right in the eye. They’re searching mine, like he’s trying to find something that I can’t offer. 

 

“Ryan,” he says, “I would _never_ do that. Not to you.” He seems lost for words, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Brendon shakes his head, hands falling to his sides. “I don’t— I don’t know why you’d even think that.” 

 

And at that moment, I don’t really care who the hell is in the gallery. Don’t care about horrible mothers or curious kids, about shopkeepers all around us, about the people trying to get customers to sample shit. All I see is him, him and his forever-messy hair, his oversized lips that I can’t seem to get enough of, the blue t-shirt peeking from under his jacket. The belt that I always, _always_ struggle with. The beauty mark that I know is on his jaw because I’ve kissed it so many times, right when he rides out his orgasm. I see him, and I cross the space between us and kiss him hard, feel his warm lips again mine, my hands holding both sides his face. He kisses me back, arms wrapping around my middle automatically. His mouth moves on mine in a way that, I realise with a pang, I’ve come to know so well. 

 

I pull back slightly, our foreheads still pressed together, his breath mingling with mine. My heart is hammering in my chest. His eyes are dark, suddenly filled with desire that I know very well neither of us can satisfy here. 

 

“I—”

 

I almost say it. I almost tell him what I swore I wouldn’t say; I almost tell him that I love him. Because I do, God, I do. I love him in every single way it's possible to love somebody; I love the scar on his brow, love the way he holds El like he's known her all his life, the way he's become a familiar sight in my living room and my kitchen. I love the way he says my name, not like it's a secret but a word that he treasures more than anything else, and I’ve never heard it like that. I love him despite the fact that the world spits on my ability to love every day, despite the hatred and prejudice I had to grow up in. Despite the fact that I never thought I'd love, and that's what makes it even more real. I love him. 

  
I love him.

 

“You’re right,” I finish instead, hoping he won’t ask me about the original start of the sentence. I clear my throat and take a step back. I don’t look around because I know exactly what the disgusted expressions look like. Maybe they’ll actually call the police this time. “We should look separately.” 

 

He smiles a little and nods. Doesn’t ask me about anything, and I’m thankful for it. Maybe he didn’t even hear it. 

 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you here in” —he fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time — “15 minutes?” 

 

“Yeah, that works.” 

 

“I’ll head that way then.” He gestures toward the end of the gallery, where I remember him looking just minutes ago. I nod and he walks away, looking more confident than he sounded. I trust him to pick something good for me. 

 

Actually, no. He’ll pick the worst possible scarf for sure. Something with awful patterns printed on an even worse colour. But it’ll be okay. 

 

I find myself wandering up to a stall which displays t-shirts hanging from coat hangers on the sides, bursts of colour that I can’t really imagine anyone wearing, much less buying. There’s a black t-shirt with a whiskey brand on it, though, and I can’t help but picture Brendon in it, which makes me smile. That’s definitely something he’d love. 

 

I look around to check if he’s anywhere to be seen, but it seems like he’s vanished somewhere, dead set on finding me a scarf. 

 

I look at the shopkeeper, who’s doing business with a man that looks like he should be someone’s bodyguard. Shaved head, sunglasses, beard, taller than me by more inches than I care to count. Susceptible to have picked on smaller kids in high school. 

 

The shopkeeper looks up at the guy, pointing to the lump of hot pink cloth in his hand. 

 

“You want a plastic bag for that?” Beard-and-Sunglasses nods, and I can’t help but try to imagine what he’d look like wearing a hot pink sleeveless shirt. It’s an… amusing thought. He walks away soon enough, a tiny plastic bag clutched in one of his hands. It almost feels as if he should be holding it between his index and thumb, just like a dressed up villain with a handbag in one of those kid’s cartoons.

 

“You need anything?” The shopkeeper’s dry tone snaps me out of the completely irrelevant picture I was painting in my head. I look at him, and his eyes are hard. Damn. Not even a chance; he’s got me figured out. 

 

I point to the black shirt. “How much?” 

 

He looks at the shirt, then back at me and shakes his head. “Not for sale.” 

 

I frown. “What do you mean—”

 

“It’s not for sale, kid. Buy something or _leave._ ” 

 

Shit. I scan the rest of the stall and my eyes land on what looks like a mustard-coloured scarf with words printed on it. I pick it up, and the guy shoots me a look like I’m about to run off with his merchandise. 

 

“How about this one? Is this one for sale?”

 

I refrain from smiling at him, partly because I don’t want to get punched, so I squint at the black lettering scattered on the fabric instead. Is this the Declaration of Independence? 

 

“Yeah,” he grumbles, folding his arms. “Fifteen dollars.” 

 

I search my pockets for the money and find a twenty that I hand him. The guy looks at me like he can’t believe someone like me is giving him money, like I’ve earned it by doing some illegal shit. He doesn’t offer me a plastic bag, and I wonder if it’s because I wouldn’t be able to strangle him or because I’m an Ashen. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I smile at him as he hands me the scarf and the change.

 

“Thanks.” He graces me with another death glare and I stroll away, wrapping the scarf around my neck after having stuffed the five dollars in my pocket. The fabric is soft, and I instantly feel protected from everyone, even if I doubt anyone here missed Brendon kissing me. Or me kissing Brendon. Not that it matters; any action involving an Ashen is probably enough to make most people want to hurl. Fun. 

 

God, why are most people dickheads? 

 

I still need to get Bren something, though, so I walk along the stalls, past the place where we agreed to meet up in about five minutes. It’s irritating that I couldn't get that shirt for him. 

 

There are more of those little shops than I had expected, some with similar objects, some completely unexpected. There’s a stall almost overflowing with pairs of multicoloured gloves, another one with dubious looking candy. I stop at a stand that displays a clutter of metallic items, as if they’d been just randomly launched onto the counter instead of neatly arranged, like in most of the other stalls. 

 

Hung up on a board on the left side, among all the other silvery keychains, is an arrow. A single arrow, without a bow, pointing down. It seems fitting, somehow, considering the story he told me yesterday; it’d be a tribute to Spencer, to their childhood. I reach out for it, feeling the metal cold against my fingers. My eyes flicker to the lady sitting next to the display.

 

“Four dollars,” she snaps before I have time to ask, not looking up from her phone. Something that feels like guilt nags at me for spending more money on myself than him. Not that I really expected a keychain to be over $15, but still. 

 

“I’ll take it,” I say, extending a hand to give her the crumpled five dollar bill as I unhook the keychain from the  little nail it was hanging on. I really should get a wallet. The woman fumbles in her bag then drops the change onto her display, clearly not giving a single flying fuck about anything else other than what’s on her screen; it reminds me of Ashley. God, she feels like she’s from another lifetime. Irrelevant. I stuff the small arrow into my pocket, making sure none of it pokes out. I’ll give it to him later tonight. 

 

Brendon’s already at our spot when I get back, grinning at me, something that looks like a dead, stripy snake in his hands. 

 

“I found a scarf,” he says, offering it to me, clearly trying not to laugh. I can’t help but also grin at the stupidity of this scarf, a dark blue horror much too thin to be of any good. 

 

“Thanks,” I say, “I hate it.” Brendon snorts and snatches the scarf from my hands, wrapping it around my neck, over the Declaration. Half of my face is now buried under fabric. I cross my arms over my chest and lift an eyebrow — one of the only parts of my face that aren’t covered — at him. Brendon looks satisfied. 

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

***

A drop lands on my nose. Shit.

 

It feels uncomfortably cold and my hand flies up to wipe it off before I turn my head up towards the sky, readjusting my jacket. Dark clouds are pushing each other around for more room to rain on the city. We’re on our way back to the hotel; the walk to the market seemed short, but it seems that we can’t outrun the rain now. Brendon frowns at me.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

The sky seems to answer for me, though, because there's an unmistakeable rumbling sound followed by more icy drops, getting more numerous by the second. One falls right into my collar and I shiver, feeling it run down my spine. _Fucking_ shit.

 

I pull both scarves off and spread the Declaration out so that its width can provide some kind of shelter til we get to the hotel. I definitely would’ve made a great boy scout. The blue horror of a scarf gets back around my neck.

 

“Here, come—” I start and take a step towards Brendon to offer to share the thin fabric, before looking up and stopping in my tracks. He’s gone still, palms towards the sky like he’s praying. 

 

“It’s raining,” he says, and I don’t bother to make a snarky remark like he’d expect me to, but cover my head with the scarf instead; I really do hate water in my shirt. The drops land on Brendon’s face as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Rivulets stream down his cheeks and chin, his hair already humid. He smiles, something genuine and innocent in the way the corners of his mouth turn upwards slightly. 

 

“I love the rain,” he murmurs. “It makes me feel safe.” 

 

His eyes are still shut, lashes dark against his skin, and for a second I’m convinced that he is the most beautiful being I have ever seen. I don’t ask him why he loves the rain so much, I just look at him. Try to remember every detail of his face like I do so often, but it seems like every time there are new things that I’d missed before. I remember the way the already wet strands stick to his skin, the light stubble covering his chin, just in case. 

 

Just in case. 

 

But something snaps me out of it — the cold, maybe — and I grab his arm, pulling him under the scarf. His eyes fly open and take a split second to come back into focus. It’s not like yesterday on the waterfront this time, though. There’s something more— alive about the look in his eyes, like he’s at peace. Like the absolution he came here to find finally took its place in his heart. 

 

I drape the fabric over his head, scowling at him. “I’m starting to think you’re sabotaging your own birthday, Urie.” 

 

A smile appears on his face and he grabs his end of the scarf, holding it over our heads. We must look like a pair of dysfunctional grandmas. Not that there’s anyone else I’d like to be a dysfunctional grandma with. Brendon runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in an awkward half wet state. 

 

“Maybe I am, _Ross_.”

 

It’s funny that I still can’t bring myself to call him anything else other than his name. Maybe some part of me is terrified that it’d mean putting a name to this, even if he’s already stated it is something. It feels like putting myself out there, exposed to the possibility of pain. 

 

But, fuck, our first kiss already made me vulnerable to it. There has been too many of them since then for me to even try to count them; might as well go all the way. 

 

“Do you prefer babe or baby?” 

 

Smooth. Real smooth. I turn my head to look at Brendon, who went from smile to shit-eating grin in seconds, apparently. I glance away, rubbing my neck with my free hand before looking at him again. I can feel my cheeks burning. “Asking for a, uh, friend.” 

 

He knows I don’t have any friends. Wow. 

 

“I don’t really intend on having any of your _friends_ call me pet names, you know,” he informs me, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Not even El? I heard she’s quite fond—”

 

He doesn’t let me finish, dropping his corner of the scarf and pulling me into a kiss. His skin is a few degrees colder than usual because of the rain, but it’s the thing that matters least right then. I kiss him back; his tongue slips into my mouth and I taste the rain on his lips, so mild compared to his intoxicating taste. The scarf sticks to both our heads, heavy from the water and completely useless as a shield. I can’t help but laugh against his mouth and he does too, breaking the kiss before pulling the soaked fabric from overhead. My hair is wet, strands plastered to my forehead.

 

“I’m gonna go ask for a refund,” I tell Brendon as seriously as I can, staring at the pitiful, soggy lump of fabric in his hands. He makes an attempt at wringing it out, which is completely useless since it’s still raining hard, and the droplets cling to his nose and lips. I want to kiss him again, but we really should get going. I shiver, and, for a few seconds, thankful for the dead blue snake around my throat. “This is _unacceptable_.” 

 

Brendon raises an eyebrow. “Depends. Did you buy it in the ‘umbrella’ section? ‘Cause you got damn fooled if that’s the case.” He shakes the Declaration out once again and looks at it indignantly. “This is no good.” 

 

I chuckle and grab his hand, resuming our less-than-spectacular walk back to the hotel. Hopefully they won’t throw us out of the lobby for dripping all over their shitty carpets. 

 

“I prefer babe, by the way,” Brendon tells me later as we walk into our hotel room after scandalising the hotel staff by showing up like two wet dogs. I nod and pull off my soaked jacket. This is gonna be hell to dry. 

 

“Alright then, Mr Babe. Go get a shower because we’ve got a reservation for two at a place whose name I can’t remember— Palermo? It’s Pal-something. Palomino. That’s it.” I smile at him and he looks down at his belt, then at me. 

 

“Okay.” He pulls his shirt off, discarding it on the bed. It’s still unmade, which says a lot about the hotel service. I was expecting more enthusiasm from Brendon at the prospect of going to a fancy restaurant, too, but he doesn’t seem impressed in any way. “You planning on joining me or not?” 

 

“I told you, it’s a reservation for—” 

 

Brendon rolls his eyes, and my brain finally catches up. This is definitely the rain’s doing, freezing neurones and shit. “Oh.” The shower. “Yes. Yeah, of course.” 

 

His jeans fall to the floor soon enough, followed by his boxers. I glance at the window; the curtains aren’t pulled, but then again Brendon never was one to hide his assets. I wonder if there’s someone peeking at his naked ass from across the street. 

 

The silvery keychain is still in my pocket; I fish it out after Brendon disappears into the bathroom and hide it in my backpack before joining him. 

 

 

Til tonight. 

 


	16. Away From Seneca Street

I wipe my mouth with the napkin that’s probably more expensive than both our phones combined. Everything is so fancy here it feels like it’s all fake, like it’s all for show. Won’t try to break a plate to check, though. 

 

We’re in one of the few quiet corners of the restaurant, the lights overhead just dim enough to envelop us in a calming aura, like we’re not quite on Earth. It’s a Saturday night and this place is more crowded than I would’ve liked it to be, but then again anywhere with anyone other than him is too crowded for me. I like the world we’ve built, day by day. There’s a little candle on the table between us, its flame trembling around the wick. I look around to see if other tables have it, too, and it seems only tables for two do. Okay. Candles are romantic. I can try romantic. 

 

I reach into my pocket and feel the metal keychain against my fingers, my thumb pressing against the blunt point of the arrow. I don’t know why I’m nervous, but I am. It’s not the same kind of nervous as giving a presentation in high school, though; that was just me being afraid of fucking up, afraid of being laughed at. This is a strange combination of impatience and apprehension, that Brendon won’t like it, that he’ll stare at me, not understanding what I’m trying to say. I look at him, sitting across from me; he’s in a white shirt that I told him to bring with him — “but I don’t have a white shirt!” — and all the digging in his closet was worth it because I can’t take my damn eyes off of him. He’s gorgeous, even when he’s doing something as mundane as finishing a scoop of ice cream. He chose vanilla, which is pretty much incomprehensible; they have about every flavour known to man here, and he chooses vanilla. 

 

A curious specimen, this Brendon Urie.

 

I clear my throat, partly because I need to stop staring at him, but also because I remember that I’m holding the keychain between my fingers. “Alright, gift time.” 

 

Brendon frowns at me, setting his spoon down after making sure there’s no ice cream left on it. It’s more of a sweet tooth thing than a money thing, that much I know, but it still makes me smile. 

 

“You said this trip was my gift,” he protests, looking vaguely offended, but I shrug and set the tiny keychain on the table. No gift wrapping. His eyes are slightly out of focus as they go to the keychain, proof of the one too many glasses of champagne we’ve both had. Definitely making up for our alcohol-less New Year’s Eve. Brendon raises his eyebrows. “Is that— Is that an arrow?” 

 

I nod and slide the keychain across the table towards him and he picks it up carefully, with both hands, like it’ll break if he’s too rash with it. It won’t, and we both know it, but he looks up at me after a few seconds and there’s an almost sad smile on his lips, his eyes bright. 

 

“You’re lucky I don’t have a bow,” he says, but his voice trembles slightly and I reach for his free hand, lacing our fingers together over the table. Fuck whoever sees. I don’t care anymore. All that matters is him, whether he’s happy, whether he liked it. The way he looks at me suggest he does, and I realise at that moment that this tiny arrow means so much more to him than I could ever imagine. My thumb traces small circles on his hand, and I smile. 

 

“Happy birthday, Bren.” 

 

He puts the keychain back down on the table and frowns as he reaches into what must be his own pocket, untangling our hands.

 

“I’ve got something for you too,” he says sheepishly, “Though I doubt I can top that.” There’sa smile on his face as he places something in front of me. “I really thought I had the upper-hand, here.” My heart had started hammering in my chest as soon as he told me he had something for me, but it stops altogether when I tear my eyes from his face and look at the little object on the white tablecloth. 

 

A ring. 

 

Simple. Silvery, like his arrow, slightly wider than you’d expect a ring to be. 

 

I look back up at him, for the hint of a question in his eyes, for an explanation, anything. We could never marry; I know this. I’m hoping he does, too. I hadn’t done the research before, and wished I hadn’t once I had. Marriage contracts don’t exist for Ashens. We can’t even legally be bound to anyone. 

 

But, thankfully, there’s no demand in his eyes, no expectations like the one I just learned to fear. And I remember something. Watching him as he peered towards the end of the gallery. I can’t believe I thought he’d spotted cops there. 

 

“Is this what you went to get when you bought that excuse for a scarf?” I ask him, half laughing, putting the ring on. It fits on my middle finger just right, which is some kind of miracle because my fingers always are too skinny for any kind of ring. Not that I’ve tried many rings in my time. 

 

Pete pops up in my mind, his showoff attitude, ring and bright red shirt on the day Brendon slammed the door open, an apparition I didn’t quite comprehend back then. 

 

I’m still not sure how he’s real, even when he’s right here, sitting across from me, smiling in the dim restaurant light as I show him my hand. I wonder where Pete is now. Happily married, probably. Maybe it’s what that bastard deserves, after all. 

 

“That scarf was great, okay,” Brendon says jokingly, cutting my train of thoughts off and nodding in approval at the ring. “But yeah. I did. Don’t know, guess I wanted to thank you for this.” He shrugs, clearly trying to pass it off as nothing much. We both know that’s not the case. 

 

“I won’t be broke after one meal, you know.” I try to make it sound light, but the fact that he thinks he needs to thank me for spending money on him stings a little. Brendon shakes his head, letting out a chuckle that almost sounds incredulous.

 

“No, I mean this— Seattle, with you.” He pauses, like he’s not sure what to say. “And for allowing me to say goodbye to Spencer.” His eyes drop to the keychain on the table, washed over with melancholy for a few seconds before looking back up at me, lighting up again. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, Ry.” 

 

He sounds so sincere that I’m not sure what to say; gratitude isn’t something I’m familiar with, even if someone as familiar as him. 

 

“You turn twenty-one once in your life, better make it good,” I say, raising my hand to hail a waiter before pointing to the empty bottle of champagne on the table. “One more of those, please.” I don’t really want to think about my own twenty-first birthday, or the complete absence of it. 

 

The guy nods stiffly. “Right away, sir.” 

 

The staff in restaurants like this one won’t show you how much they despise you. No; they’ll do exactly what you ask them to do, exaggerate their service to show that they aren’t biased. As long as you can pay them. Same bullshit, just more expensive. 

 

He does bring another bottle by, though, and we finish it way faster than either of us would admit. Brendon looks almost other-worldly in the candlelight, and I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve him.

 

I get the check once we decide we’ve been here long enough and Brendon grabs his phone from his jacket when we get outside. Probably jotting down a song he’ll put in a playlist later on, like he does so often. My stomach fills with warmth at the thought of the songs that’ll be on there. I like to go through their lyrics, looking for the clues that made him pick it.It makes it feel like those songs were tailor-made for us, like we’re the only ones to ever listen to them. I look over his shoulder at his screen. 

 

“The Cure?” I can’t help but chuckle. Good band, but he usually chooses one particular song. “Are you gonna make a playlist of just their songs?” Brendon turns to look at me, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

 

“Maybe,” he says, smirking a little, closing in just enough so that his lips are an inch away from mine. Still a fucking tease. He pulls away as I lean in, eyes sparkling, and I swear there’s a whole galaxy in his irises. I shake my head and he laughs, taking a few steps forward before stopping and looking back at me. 

 

“You coming or not?” 

 

“Yeah,” I say, catching up with him, hands in my pockets, feeling the still unfamiliar metal of the ring against my skin. Mine. 

 

Minemineminemine.

 

I make a brief mental tally of how many things he’s taken over in my life. The shampoo. The shirts we share. The Polaroids, the ridiculous scarf. My dog at his friend’s, his hand so often in mine it feels like a habit. And now, this ring. 

 

God, I love him.

 

It’s still a scary thought, like a forbidden belief no one but me understands, but it’s crystal clear. I don’t think there’s any other way to explain it.

 

We walk back to the hotel, arms linked, stumbling slightly, our shoulders pressed together and our noses stuck in our respective scarves — his in the Declaration, mine in his bad fashion choices —, braving the midnight wind of the city. 

 

The hotel lobby is completely empty as we walk inside and it feels like we’re two teenagers sneaking in and out of a house, dodging parents and curfews. Normal kids, laughing in the dark on a cold Saturday night. We get to our floor, the fifth, and Brendon slams me against the wall as soon as we’re out of the lift, and I let out a gasp right before our lips meet. He kisses me slowly, hands going up to my hair, crotch pressing against mine. He’s already hard, and I can’t believe he hasn’t said a word about it before. He’s not one to hold back, especially not slightly intoxicated. I kiss him back, taking my time, all the time in the world.

 

My fingers find the waistband of his pants and he draws in a sharp breath as my cold fingers graze the warm skin beneath the shirt that I’ve pulled out of his pants. My head is against the wall, and his mouth is demanding on mine, coaxing it open, and I let him. 

 

We move to our door, though, because getting caught having sex in hotel halls is an amateur move, and Brendon will let himself be called anything but an amateur. My hands tremble slightly as I find the key in my pocket and try to get it in the keyhole. It’s a failure. Brendon lets out something that sounds like a giggle. 

 

“Are you that drunk?” 

 

I scowl at him. “I’m _not_ a lightweight.” 

 

Brendon drapes himself over me, not convinced. “Mhm. You did forget the word for record that one time, though.” Pause. “God, I can’t believe you actually forgot a whole word.” He laughs as I make another attempt at opening our hotel door, which is ridiculously difficult because he’s all over me, and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping, but I feel a smile on my face because he’s being so stupid. He says something else that mustn’t matter because he cuts himself off to start kissing my neck, and I finally get the door open.

 

I turn around to kiss him properly, to taste him and the lingering scent of alcohol on his lips again and we stumble backwards inside, already getting our jackets and scarves off, dropping them to the ground. He slams the door closed and turns the lights on hastily because he likes to see me, and I’ve stopped worrying about my veins a long time ago. He doesn’t care, never has, kissing ever inch of my body, looking at me like I’m worth more than anyone’s ever realised. A sudden hunger sparks in the pit of my stomach, and I need him naked, under me, now. I need to see him and be inside him and watch pleasure flash on his features, need to feel him squirm beneath me, to feel his skin against mine. His mouth moves on mine, hot and wet, tongues and teeth clashing as my hands go to the collar of his shirt to work on the buttons, and he does the same, feverish, short breaths betraying the frantic beating of his heart.

 

We collapse onto the bed after getting rid of the shirts and our shoes, me on top of him, our mouths crashing together again, and Brendon lets out a whimper that seems to be the fucking sexiest thing in the universe right then, and his hands lock on the back of my neck, kissing me like his life depends on it. My hands tangle in his soft hair, running across his bare shoulders, the fire in the pit of my stomach spreading faster and faster through my limbs. My skin is tingling, just like every time. I bite down on his lip and he whines, and I’m hard knowing how much he loves it, how much he needs me. I pull back to look at him, at his dark eyes and the mess I know I’ve made of his hair, at the smoothness of his chest, but something else catches my eye instead.

 

Fuck. 

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

 

I want it to be a mistake. It has to be a mistake. It has to be the alcohol or his intoxicating scent, a vision, anything, _anything_ , but somehow I know exactly what it is before my brain even forms the thought. I jerk back violently, getting off the bed and backing away from him. It feels like all the air is drained from my lungs. I can’t take my eyes offhis lips, staring at his mouth like his kiss was poison. Brendon frowns, presses his lips together, smearing crimson like some kind of sick lipstick. I watch in horror as his hand flies to his mouth, as blood stains his fingertip. His eyes widen and understanding comes flooding in, washing away every single thing we had, every second, every moment. 

 

It’s all gone. 

 

Just a few drops of blood. 

 

I blink slowly, ignoring the knot that’s firmly in my chest, the ice in my veins, and the slight feeling of unreality taking over my senses. This is just a bad dream, right? Just a bad dream. I’ll wake up next to him. 

 

But the shock in Brendon’s eyes as he stands up next to me is too real to be construed by the imagination. He wipes his hand on his pants, a weak attempt to get rid of the stain, but it doesn’t come off. He’s not looking at me. I can’t bear to look at him either. I stare at a spot on the floor, trying to keep myself together. 

 

Just keep yourself together. 

 

It wasn’t as if this day would never come. I knew this. 

 

The silence that follows is deafening. It feels as if not only my lungs but this entire room is empty of air, like there’s something so heavy about to crash on both of us that we don’t move at all. 

 

“I’ll fix it,” he says suddenly, an urgency in his voice that sounds like distress, and pain stabs through my chest as I’m slammed back into the scene. There’s no fixing this. There’s no going back from here. No looking back. Brendon’s voice is shaking. “Tell me how to fix it, Ryan, I’ll— I’ll make it better, I’ll fix this. I’ll fix— I’ll fix us.” 

 

He keeps talking about making things right and I want to tell him that that’s exactly the problem: there’s nothing to fix, and I don’t know if it’s because there’s no problem or because there’s no _us_. He doesn’t see that his blood colour cancels out every single thing we had. He has found better. 

 

I don’t know when, I don’t know how it’s possible he hasn’t realised it sooner. I’ve always thought that upon meeting his soulmate, he’d know. But I look into his eyes and he’s just as lost as I am, just as scared.

 

“Don’t leave,” Brendon whispers finally, powerlessly, as he walks closer, eyes wide in another silent supplication. It seems absurd to me; I’ve always pictured him leaving, leaving with a stranger that has the biological upper-hand, and yet he’s the one asking me to stay. This is just a big joke. Brendon laces our fingers together, tentatively, carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll lash out. I don’t. I let him. I don’t have the strength to react at all; I keep my eyes on the floor, as if that’ll change anything. Maybe it can open up and swallow me whole.

 

“Please don’t leave me,” I hear Brendon say again, and something breaks in me, if there’s anything left to break. I can’t bear to see him this weak. He’s the strong one. He’s the one who’s endured. I’m just a victim of life. Bottom of the chain. 

 

I take a deep breath. I’ll stay. It’s his birthday. I promised myself nothing would ruin his birthday, and that includes me. 

 

Not that I ever imagined this scenario would happen. 

 

“I’m not leaving,” I hear myself say, but it feels like I’m watching this from somewhere else. Like it isn’t me in this hotel room, because things like this don’t happen. He was the only good thing in my life. This is just some alternate reality where God or whoever’s up there likes to make fun of people. This is just a show we’re watching together, cuddled up in my sofa. This isn’t real. 

 

Brendon sighs in relief, pulls me towards him and closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around my middle. He’s just as warm as all the other days, as if nothing’s changed. Nothing’s changed. 

 

Everything’s changed.

 

We make our way to the bed, where we lay down next to each other, like every night before this one. It’ll be okay. Who am I fucking kidding. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and I stare at the ceiling. He rolls to his side and I do too, automatically, my arm finding its way around his waist. I don’t really know what he’s sorry for. He doesn’t haveany more control over this than I do. 

 

“It’s okay,” I say nonetheless, smiling the best I can into his hair, even if he can’t see it. Brendon backs up against my chest, his heat cutting into my bones, our fingers entwined and legs tangled together. “It’s going to be okay.” Brendon sighs again and I breathe in the scent of him, of his hair, of his skin. He trusts me. God, this fucking hurts. I close my eyes and focus on the way he feels in my arms. It’s all I need to care about right now. 

 

He’s fast asleep, and all I can think of is how ironic this whole thing is. How I’m proved wrong, once again. How he never belonged to me. Not when he woke up in my bed, not when he held me under the starry sky on our New Year’s Eve. Not when we whispered heated words and promises that we were never to keep, not when we looked at the ocean together, not when he left his mark on my skin. He was never mine. 

 

I barely sleep. 

 

We must’ve come home later than I thought last night because morning comes faster than any other morning of my life. Light filters through the window and I realise we didn’t even bother to pull the curtains last night. 

 

Brendon is still in my arms, his breathing deep and regular. 

 

God, he’s so beautiful. 

 

And I know I should be thankful for the all the times where I tried to memorise his face, like I knew something like this would happen, knowledge buried deep in the back of my mind. There’s so much I remember right now, like I could store it somewhere and keep it, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. I feel like I’m going to forget. I don’t want to forget. 

 

I should forget. For the first time, the morning light isn’t welcome. It holds finality in its weak rays, something about it feels like it’s mocking me, too. But I won’t let it get to me. Not yet. I want this room to hold good memories. The fifth floor of a shitty hotel in Seattle, Washington. 

 

Where I lost the boy I thought I could love. 

 

I manage to untangle myself from him without waking him, but he shifts in his sleep, eyelids fluttering. I stand up. Get dressed. Stuff everything that’s mine into the backpack. 

 

I kiss his forehead softly and step back, taking him in one last time, seeing the tiny cut on his lower lip. I could ignore this. I could stay. 

 

We could pretend this system doesn’t exist, we could run away together and never look back. But it’s only now that I notice the light pink ridding his cheeks, proof of the change. I can’t stay. I can’t stay.

 

I tear my eyes from him before I grab my backpack, leaving his all alone on the hotel floor. It looks wrong. Looks lonely. I feel my nose prickling and press my lips together, hands balled up in fists.

 

Don’t fall apart.

 

The sunlight catches something metallic on my hand as I sling the backpack on my shoulder, and I can’t believe I almost forgot it was there, already. It’s only been a few hours, and yet the ring doesn’t feel foreign, encompassing my finger. I can’t keep it, though. Looking at myself in the mirror every day will be enough of a reminder that he wasn’t mine to lose. 

 

I set the ring on the nightstand on his side of the bed, next to the room key and a small notepad I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe I should leave him a note. 

 

No. No, I shouldn’t leave him a note. Everything’s crystal clear, and there’s no excuse for this. It’s breaking a promise. Leaving a note wouldn’t help either of us. 

 

And, what would I say anyway? I’m sorry? I hope you’re happy? 

 

Bullshit. 

 

It was my mistake to ever believe in the first place. People like me don’t believe. We don’t get that chance. I was so enthralled by him that I forgot myself, and now reality is reminding me that I never should’ve had a taste of it in the first place. Hitting me right in the face. 

 

I don’t say the three words I’ve been so desperately wanting to hear from him as I stand on the doorstep, even if he wouldn’t hear them, because I know he’ll never say them back. He never could. I glance into the room one last time, wishing I could capture it. The polaroid camera in my backpack feels heavy with memories.

 

The hotel door clicks shut behind me and my breath catches in my throat. It’s over. I can’t go back now. The door’s locked, and I know I need to do the same with my heart. Never again.

 

It doesn’t feel like a relief, though. Doesn’t feel like closing a chapter of my existence. It feels like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, even if I know that the biggest mistake was to have met him at all. 

 

The girl at the reception desk looks so tired that she doesn’t even look at me when I ask her to make sure I’ve already paid for the room; she doesn’t see me quickly wiping away the tears that I don’t let escape, doesn’t see the tremor in my lower lip, even if it’s the only thing I can focus on. 

 

Brendon’s car is still across the street when I push the glass door open, and I don’t let myself look at it. This still doesn’t feel real at all, even if my vision’s blurred with what I don’t want to believe are tears. 

 

And I keep walking. I keep walking because I will never be able to love him like he deserves to be loved, like he’ll be loved in the future. I keep walking because if I stay, if I give myself another chance, I might fall in love with the spark in his eyes again, with his smile, fall deeper in love with every detail that makes him who he is. The boy I let in. The boy whose happiness resides in downpours and birdsongs, the boy that allowed me to make mistakes and let himself be hurt because he thought I was the one. Because he believed that what we had, as brief as it was, was love. It wasn’t. It never was.

 

He’ll know love, soon enough. 

 

And I keep walking, even if I can picture the sleep in his brown eyes as he wakes, still clueless about everything I’ve done. I’m a deserter. I keep walking even if I know that his hands will shake as realisation comes crashing in, that his eyes will fill with tears of rage when he sees my cowardice in form of a solitary backpack on the hotel floor. A ring on the nightstand. Even if I know he’ll hate me for the rest of my life. I keep walking. 

 

His voice rings in my head, sincere, a painful memory too recent to be blurry. 

 

_I would never do that. Not to you._

 

I keep walking. 

 

And every step tears me apart.

 

_** END OF PART I  ** _


	17. Prologue II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry early christmas, y'all.

**_SIX MONTHS LATER_ **

 

_October 2008._

 

I sigh and place my mug back on the table, in the middle of tons of papers that I still can’t bother to clean up. There’s dust everywhere, too, and it’s incredible how much of that shit furniture can gather in just six months. I checked — it really is _everywhere_ ; on the kitchen counter, on the bookshelves, even on my goddamned sofa. It’s like it’s all coated in a thin layer of time. This is how time asserts dominance in our lives: it wrinkles, it moulds, it covers in dust. Time is a bitch.

 

It does feels like I was away for years, though. 

 

Walking back in here felt like walking in on a crime scene. Everything exactly where I left it, like a dead person’s room whose family couldn’t bear to change a thing. I wonder if my room is still the same. Probably not. I was the Ashen, the disgrace, probably better off dead. Maybe I’m still alive out of spite. 

 

I haven’t had the heart to move El’s water bowl away yet, even if it stings every time I see it from the corner of my eye. I miss her. I miss her running around the apartment, miss the little noises she made during her dog-dreams. This place feels so empty without her, like some part of the soul of the apartment is gone. It feels wrong. I try not to think about it too much, though, because that’s too much pain I shouldn’t be digging up. Some things should just be left to the inaccuracy of the human mind.

 

A buzzing sound from my phone makes me look up from my book, and I know it must be him because he’s the only one who has my new number. I reach forward and pick the phone up, reading the line of text that appeared on the screen. 

 

_hope you got home safe. miss you already. b._

 

It’s odd to think he still cares about me, after everything we’ve been through. He’s forgiven me; I’m not sure I deserve it. I smile and text him back, letting him know that yes, I made it home. I don’t tell him I miss him too, though, because that’s only rubbing salt in the wound. Neither of us needs that. He already was too kind. 

 

The unmistakeable sound of a key in my door makes me look up again, lift my feet off the desk and stand up, only more aware of the absence of the usual scrambling noise of paws on the floor. God, I really need to get my shit together. I’m beginning to doubt six months was enough.

 

It has to be the landlord. Fuck. Must be here after hearing the Ashen is back in town; this is a faster reaction than when I asked him to fix the leaking tap. He could at least have the decency to knock, but that’s already asking for too much. I don’t get to have any demands. 

 

I start towards the door to greet him the best I can, prepared to paint on a grin and nod briefly when he asks me where my horrid beast is, but it swings open before I get to it, and I stop in my tracks, stomach dropping. 

 

This isn’t the white head of hair and wrinkled face I expected to see. That would’ve been too easy, right? You’d think I’d have learned by now. I never do, apparently, because this is worse than I imagined. 

 

My heart skips a beat. Short brown hair, a leather jacket I don’t recognise. Lips that I still do know. That I can still feel, if I think about them just a little too much. 

 

Brendon’s eyes widen as he lifts his head and takes me in, the keys still dangling from his fingers. 

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” 


	18. A Lesson In Self-Deceit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there any use in apologising? it was a bad writer's block, i promise. i just hope you enjoy this!!

13th April, 2008. 

 

I wake up to the muted humming of an engine, to the slight sway of the car on the highway. The sun’s warming my skin like it seems to do so often these days. It’s a wonder I haven’t tanned at all. I keep my eyes closed for a few more moments, just for my brain to adjust to its newly awoken state. How long has Brendon been driving for? Does he want me to take over? And why doesn’t he have any music on? That’s so unlike hi—

 

Oh.

 

The unfamiliarity of the car hits me as soon as I open my eyes and turn my head to ask Brendon, except that, of course, it’s a stranger’s face instead of his, a stranger’s hands on the steering wheel. And I remember, suddenly, as if my mind had decided to spare me for just fifteen cruel seconds before bringing me right back. Thanks, brain. You fucker. 

 

I wonder briefly what would happen if I opened the car door and leaped out, right now, at, what,65mph? Maybe another car would mow me down before I even hit the ground. Lightning fast. Painless, if I’m lucky. 

 

“You’re awake,” the stranger says, glancing away from the road to look at me. I can’t have my self-destructive thoughts in peace, then. I blink at him, feeling the pain creep back into my ribcage as the first wave of anger subsides, like a monster that’s set loose again, awake after some twisted hibernation. My eyes finally focus on his face, looking for anything that would explain where the hell I am since I don’t remember getting in this car. The guy has a big nose and a shit ton of brown hair, afro-like, and it seems like it’s its own entity, cohabiting with him in more-or-less peace. A beard covers half of his face, like a hippie Serpico or something. A good sign, probably. As good as waking up in a random car can get. 

 

“I was kinda starting to worry you’d stopped breathing,” he adds, not without a hint of humour. I don’t answer him, don’t say that some part of me does wish I wasn’t breathing anymore. It’d be so much easier, to just disappear. To stop feeling at all. He falls silent at my lack of response, and I stare straight ahead, processing the situation. I didn’t spot any visible veins on his bare forearms, and I don’t need to look at his neck for more clues. Not an Ashen. Fuck knows what I’m doing here.

 

The car is clearly one that’s been partied in, wrappings strewing the floor, an opened pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. Driver Guy clears his throat, gesturing briefly to the shit on the floor.

 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, clearly embarrassed. “I don’t get guests very oft—”

 

“How did I get here?” 

 

The guy closes his mouth and looks at me for real this time, blue eyes full of surprise. “You don’t remember?” 

 

He mutters something under his breath and scratches the back of his head, clearly perplexed, probably trying to give me the least painful version of the truth. We’ve barely even met, and he’s already pitying me. Great. 

 

“Uh— You were standing by the side of the street, near the library. I think you were trying to hitch a ride?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“A ride, you know— Hitchhike,” He points his thumb sideways, clearly trying to explain something that doesn’t need explaining. I roll my eyes. 

 

“I know what hitchhiking is,” I say, well aware of how exasperated I sound. I hate this. I hate being in a car bound for fuck-knows where, hate the guy trying to be friendly. I don’t want friendly. I want to fall asleep and never wake up to whatever hell this life has become. “What I want to know is where I told you to go.” 

 

“Hey, I’m not your fucking taxi driver,” he says, and I’m taken aback by the sudden harshness of his tone. I probably deserve it.He runs a hand over his face and exhales. “Sorry. Rough night.” 

 

I wonder what a rough night for him means as I stare ahead at the road again, mouth shut. Too many rounds? Too much alcohol? More broken hearts than mine? Fuck, what if he got arrested last night? Does that make me an accomplice?

 

“I’m Joe, by the way,” he adds, and I look at the tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror instead of him. Half of it is stained purple, like it was spray painted by a four-year-old with no prior experience. “I’d shake your hand but I’d rather keep mine on the wheel, if you don’t mind.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

He still hasn’t told me where we’re going. There’s a purple stain on his windshield, too, behind the tree. Maybe it really is spray paint. I wonder if the steering wheel is the only reason that makes him not shake my hand, or if he also believes in those stupid Ashen tales every high schooler has heard of at least once. I try to imagine the face he’d make if I asked him about it as I look out the window at the other lanes. He’d be offended, probably, and his thick brows would furrow. I’m beyond caring what he thinks, though. I’m beyond caring for a lot of things right now. 

 

“LA,” he says suddenly, which makes me turn my head to look at him. His eyes dart between me and the road, like he can’t make up his mind on whether it’s safe to look away for longer than three seconds. “We’re going to LA.” He takes a deep breath like he’s about to ask me to swan dive out of his car. “Can you drive?” 

 

I nod, partly because it’s just dawned on me that I’ll be going back to that city alone, just like I did four years ago, except that this time the broken heart is mine. The image of a teenage boy appears in my mind, bright eyes and tight clothes, one I haven’t seen in years. Fuck. 

 

I could go there. I could go to him. He’d let me back, right? We were like family; the closest thing I had to a family. 

 

I remember the way my stomach dropped when Tyler told me where he was going, infinite fatigue deep in his eyes, and the way I somehow managed to not think beyond it that night. Beyond that one word, that one city. Sylmar. The place where all Ashens around here wind up, at one point in their life. Most of us die there; I didn’t want to. So I got the fuck out. 

 

But I think of him again and suddenly it’s not all sunshine and roses anymore. It wasn’t. It was pain and running away and guilt. God, it was so much guilt, but even that seems easier to deal with than the vision of a golden boy tangled up in sun-stained sheets.

 

“We’ll switch in Portland then,” Joe enthuses, pulling me out of my aimless pondering and tearing the picture of the hotel room apart. “It’s, like, halfway.” 

 

He sounds satisfied, probably because he’ll get to LA in two days instead of three, and spare some motel money on the way. Me, I just want to stay in this car. Not to think about how we were supposed to stay in Portland, too, until he decided Weed was a better call. Until fate decided to fuck us over. Until I ran away, like fucking Valjean with the silverware, except that there’s no forgiveness here. But then I remember Joe’s probably waiting for me to answer, so I sigh; look down at my backpack, by my feet. Refuse to picture it on the hotel room floor. 

 

“Sure.” He glances over again, either at me or at the pine tree; it’s hard to tell when I’m not looking at him. The interstate stretches out in front of us, endless. Joe tries to nudge me. I let him try, but I’m too far for it to succeed, and he just ends up making an awkward motion with his elbow. 

 

“Not much of a talker, huh?” 

 

God, he has no idea. It’s… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real yet. How did Brendon not notice? Why didn’t he say anything? 

 

“I’m tired.” 

 

That’s the truth. Probably the only truth he’ll get out of me today; I catch myself regretting staying up last night. I’m such a fucking idiot for holding on for so long. These memories won’t do me any good, right? Not anymore. Memories like these are made to look back on in years, when he and I are seated next to each other in front of a chimney fire. These memories are for a future that won’t exist. Can’t exist. Fuck, that stings. 

 

Joe chuckles. “Dude. You’ve been passed out for like… four hours. The hell did you do last night?”

 

“Rough night,” I say, repeating his words from earlier, though I doubt his definition of a rough night is as bad as mine is. As if I was going to tell him about my entire life and in all its shittiness, about Brendon and whatever the fuck just happened between us. It’s just about the last thing I want to talk about right now, and Joe miraculously doesn’t find anything to say to that. People usually dislike being given a taste of their own medicine. 

 

Joe. I wonder briefly if his full name is Joseph — no one’s actual birth name is Joe, right? — and if he’s religious. Probably, with a name like that. His beard does makes him look like a Renaissance rendition of Christ, if only Christ smelled of weed.

 

 

As for me, God and I’s relationship worsened with every step my mother took to get away from me and my black veins, and I don’t know where I stand apart from the fact that it’s on this Earth and very, very far away from him and his targeted, exclusive love. If God loved Ashens, he sure had an odd way of showing it. 

 

***

 

I pass out again, I think. Religious pondering sure seemed good for my brain. I don’t know for how long, or where we are when I open my eyes, but it’s already dark, and there are a lot fewer cars on the interstate. The street lights lining the freeway cast moving shadows on Joe’s face, and I get a glimpse of what he’d look like if he were an Ashen, too. The paler skin looking ashy under the yellow light, the shadows over his eyes. He’d be just like me.

 

“So where are they?” My voice sounds croaky, like I’ve been smoking for fifty years; maybe that’s the sound of grief. Joe jumps a little at the sound of my voice, like there’s an Orc in his car instead of an exhausted, heartbroken dude. By this point, he probably wishes I was an Orc. At least Orcs can prove somewhat entertaining. 

 

“Dude, you gotta warn me when you wake up,” Joe says, dropping a hand to his thigh, like he’s relieved it’s only me. He switches lanes before looking back at me quizzically, like my question was dumb. “Where are who?” 

 

I shrug. “Your soulmate? You know, the person that’s supposed to be with you until you die, and shit like that.” I rub my eyes and swallow, my throat painfully sore. I probably got a cold from the rain the other day. Great. 

 

Joe lets out a short laugh, but I can’t tell whether it’s out of embarrassment or not. What, has he cheated on his soulmate or something? Is that even a thing that happens? 

 

He scratches the back of his head, as if he needs to think about what he’s about to say. “I don’t really care about soulmates,” he says. I blink, as if to make sure I heard him right. 

 

“What?” 

 

“I don’t wanna dedicate my entire life to finding a soulmate,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal to some of us. I think of Brendon, and how I’d grown to believe that he was the one. He was the one person for me, even if we didn’t match. Because we all have soulmates, we all do. That’s just how the world works. We’re not whole without our other half. 

 

“So you just don’t give a shit,” I snap, clenching my jaw and sticking my hands into my pockets because I’ve started shaking slightly and don’t want him to see it. It’s so easy for him to say, when he still has transparent blood that doesn’t warrant disgusted stares and all the shit we have to put up with. The level of fucking self-satisfaction that he exudes is unbelievable. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t give a shit,” Joe says, shifting in his seat but keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. He’s uncomfortable now. Good. I can’t even begin to imagine how he can say that in the presence of an Ashen. “I just think it’s dumb to have everything revolve around that. I’m a person, not a machine built to find another machine.” 

 

He should try having black blood, see how we’re really not machines. See how people look at us. He would never be saying shit like this if he only knew, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know how fucking lucky he is, to have someone out there for him, alive, and probably just waiting to find him. He’s throwing away the chances that I’d kill to have, without even thinking twice. 

 

“Whatever.” I’m done arguing. It’s not like we can make an exchange, not like we can pour his crystal clear blood into my darkened veins and miraculously resuscitate my soulmate. That’s… not how it works.

 

We fall silent, and the lack of music makes me more uncomfortable. There’s nothing to focus on, nothing to distract me from the blood pulsing in my temples, or, worse, the thoughts behind them. 

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe says suddenly, which catches me by surprise. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything like that.” How does he know about Bren? 

 

“It’s not like we were gonna spend our lives together,” I hear myself say, more detached than I thought myself capable of, and it finally hits me in the face. We were never gonna spend our lives together. But I keep on talking, because Joe’s words suddenly unlocked some floodgate in my mind, and I can’t stop. 

 

“It’s not like I ever expected us to stay like that forever, either.” 

 

Lie. 

 

“I really just wanted to know what having sex felt like.”

 

Lie.

 

“He obviously has someone else out there, we were just having fun anyway.” 

 

Lie. Lie. Lie. 

 

When I finally stop, Joe looks about as confused as I am unconvinced by my own words. He shifts gears and pulls the brakes, and only then do I realise we’ve pulled up at a rest stop. 

 

“I was talking about your soulmate,” he says, and of course he was. I reach down to my backpack, not to find anything in particular but to try to dissolve the awkwardness that’s suddenly filling the air. I pull on the zipper and peer into the backpack the best I can, reaching in. 

 

“You loved him, didn’t you,” Joe says simply, and I look up to see him staring at me. Has he been looking this whole time? Fuck, that makes it even more awkward. 

 

I set my backpack back down and look at the mostly-empty rest area so that I don’t have to answer his question. I can imagine kids running around here during the day, only too happy to stretch their legs in between long drives. Drivers asleep in their seats, getting as much rest as they can before going back on the road. Young couples making out here at night, when there’s no one else. And then us. Joe and I. A self-proclaimed loner and a fate-bound one. I sigh. 

 

“It doesn’t really matter.” 

 

“I don’t think that’s true, you know. It’s—”

 

“What do you know about it anyway? It’s not like you ever loved anyone, right? It’s not like you can give me any fucking advice!” I open the car door and push it open, stepping out of the car. Anger bubbles in my gut, and I want to tell Joe that there’s no way I ever loved a guy that wasn’t my soulmate. I want to tell _myself_ that there’s no way I loved him, but the pain is too real for it to have been nothing. I don’t want to feel. 

 

But if I can’t stay numb for now, then I will it to stay anger, in any shape or form, so that I don’t have to feel my nose prick and my eyes burn again, feel his absence seep through every fold of my brain like something that I really can’t escape. 

 

The sound of a car door slamming makes me turn around. Joe looks at me from over his car, but I can’t tell what expression’s on his face because of the dark. 

 

“I know because it’s so goddamn obvious,” he says calmly, and I wish he’d just yell at me instead. At least that would let me focus on something other than my own head for a few moments. “And it’s not because I don’t feel the need to love someone else romantically that I don’t feel love,” he adds, circling the car to lean against it after having slammed the passenger door shut. “You wouldn’t be trying to convince yourself of all that stuff if it didn’t mean something to you, you know.” 

 

“What are you, a psychologist?” I spit, walking away from him and the car. I hate that a stranger can see right through me. So I’m just that easy to decipher, huh? Brendon probably knew exactly what was going through my head the first time we met. He didn’t waste his time. 

 

“Nah. I’ve just met a lot of people.” 

 

“But never the one, huh?” I stick my hands in my pockets and turn to face him, a few feet between us. 

 

Joe chuckles and looks down, shaking his head. His hair almost hides his face from view. “No. I’m not looking for the one.” 

 

I still don’t understand, but it’s his life. His choice. We all deal with what we’re given, right? Even if it’s fucking unfair. 

 

“Aren’t you scared to die?” I hear myself say. “Aren’t you afraid that your soulmate will do some stupid shit and kill you?” 

 

Joe shrugs. “Are you scared to die?” 

 

“No.” I think for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

 

“I could just as easily die in a car crash or get hit on the head by a falling brick,” he elaborates, clearly looking for something in his pocket. “And I don’t think anyone would be horrible enough to do that on purpose,” he adds, bringing a cigarette to his lips. Considering the ambient smell in his car, it’s probably a joint. A sadly bent one, too. He fumbles a bit more in his pockets, searching for what must be his lighter, which he finds and brings near his face. The flame dances in front of his eyes as he lights the end of the joint, flickering out when he’s done. He takes a slow drag. I stare. 

 

“This is so fucking unfair.” 

 

Joe’s eyes widen in surprise and he puffs out some smoke before pushing himself away from the car and taking a few steps towards me, arm stretched out. 

 

“Sorry, should’ve asked if you wanted some. My bad.”

 

I shake my head. “No. Not that.” 

 

Joe’s arm drops, almost like he’s disappointed, but I ignore it. “Why does the system get to decide who we fall in love with? Has no one fallen for the wrong person before? Does anyone cheat the goddamn system?”

 

I don’t think about whether Brendon would still want to cheat the system, knowing he’s met his soulmate already. Joe looks like he thinks I really could use some weed. 

 

“There probably are,” he says. “But no one talks about them. It’s not the kinda shit they teach in school, you know. Imagine the chaos that would generate.”

 

He’s right. But now I need to know, need to see if there were any kids like me before, kids who fell for the wrong person after losing the right person. And there’s only one place near here where I can study up. 

 

I walk to the car and try to open the passenger-side door, which proves difficult because Joe’s gone back to leaning against it. He tuts, taking another drag of his joint and pointing to the other side.

 

“You’re driving,” he says. “That was the deal. We can stop at the next motel we see.” 

 

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m not tired, you can sleep.” 

 

Joe frowns as I circle the car to get to the driver’s side, but he gets in the passenger seat anyway. 

 

“Fine. Just don’t crash the car.” I let out a lifeless chuckle as I turn the key in the ignition and feel the engine come to life. Joe slams the door shut and looks at me, like he’s expecting me to say something in return, so I do, because I've decided. 

 

LA is no place for me to go now. 

 

“I’m getting off at Sylmar.” 


	19. Just Like This, Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am miraculously Not Dead, and with a new chapter for you on top of that!
> 
> this may also be the most dialogue i've written in a while. damn. 
> 
> enjoy, my dudes. 
> 
> (title is a quote from brokeback mountain)

The first thing I notice when Joe’s car pulls up to a busy street corner in Sylmar is how this place hasn’t changed at all in nearly four years. It’s not that much about the buildings, but more about the people; it’s the same not quite empty look in their eyes, a tale of giving up and living to barely exist, no more than that. A shiver runs down my spine as I remember that this is exactly why I left. I didn’t want to end up like this; I’d rather put up with the red-blooded bullshit than die a little more each day.

 

Joe looks out the window before turning back to me, turning the engine off. He looks— concerned? Why is he concerned? 

 

“Are you sure this is it?” 

 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

 

He frowns. “It looks so… normal. But a creepy kind of normal, you know? Like there’s something wrong or some shit.” 

 

I chuckle at that. Yeah, there is something wrong with all of us here. That’s why we’re here in the first place.

 

“I grew up in this place,” I say. “Can’t not recognise it.” 

 

It’s still the same place, without doubt. I recognise this building, recognise the blue mailbox no one’s used in years, and not only because smartphones have taken over, but because we have no one to send letters to. No one waiting for a handwritten letter on the other side of the world, not from people like us. We hold no sentimental value. 

 

I think of the house that I used to live in, in a nice neighbourhood in Glendale. How much went wrong since then, how that’ll never be where I truly grew up. Growing up for me was waiting tables, breaking glasses and learning how to make perfect pancakes. Growing up was sharing a room with— Fuck, I really hope he’ll let me back. 

 

The diner’s right behind this corner, and a sudden knot forms in my stomach, bringing up questions I hadn’t asked myself in the midst of the anger and desperation that held me just a layer beneath reality. Is he really going to just let me stroll back into his life? 

 

It’s hard to tell when we haven’t talked in four years, when I can’t even remember what the last words he said to me were. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe he’s found someone and really doesn’t need me knocking on his door. I take a deep breath, my hand on the handle, ready to get out of the car and face Sylmar again. I don’t have another choice right now. 

 

“I can drive you back to LA, you know,” Joe offers suddenly, and I hate that he does. I hate that he’s saying exactly what I don’t need to hear, that he offers me a choice. A possibility.

 

It’s a possibility. Yeah, I could go back to LA. Live in my empty apartment with only the ghost of Brendon in my bed and his laughter echoing in my head. That’s not happening. I’m not going to let that happen because I just might do the stupidest things if I go back. 

 

“I’m gonna stay here. They’re like me here.” 

 

Joe looks out of his window at the passersby, fingers restlessly tapping on the wheel, then back at me. He looks about as unconvinced as I feel. 

 

“No, they’re not. Look at him.” He points at a middle aged man sitting on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, vacant grey stare looking straight ahead as people walk past him. He looks strangely peaceful. “He creeps me out. You’re not like that, right? Do you sit on sidewalks and look at nothing all day?” 

 

“I could,” I say, refusing to think of how that might be me in twenty years, if this attempt at mending things turns out unsuccessful. I really shouldn’t be thinking this far. Focus on right now. “Anyway, I gotta go.” 

 

I pick my backpack up, push the car door open and step a foot onto the concrete. It doesn’t feel final like it should, but it doesn’t feel like I’m back where I belong either. I don’t know where I belong. It wasn’t with him, though. I know that now. 

 

The car door slams shut and I see Joe looking at me from inside through the half opened window, like he’s expecting me to say something, again. He expects so much from me. 

 

“Thanks for the ride, Joe.” 

 

He shakes his head to say it’s no big deal. I tighten my grip on the strap of my backpack. Is it bad that I don’t want him to go? Is it bad that he’s become reassuring to me in two short days? Joe, the dude that doesn’t think a soulmate is necessary. It’s odd to think there are people like that in this world, people not defined by one of two things that’ll ever be absolute in their life. A soulmate, and death. 

 

These are the only two things we’re all sure about, the only certainties that all of us have to deal with. And Joe is somehow not part of that, and yet he’s the only one who hasn’t shoved his clear-blood superiority in my face. 

 

Apart from Brendon. But Brendon doesn’t count, not anymore. 

 

 

“I mean it. Thank you.” 

 

 

He grins at me and turns the key in the ignition, starting the car up again. I don’t even know his last name. 

 

And, as he drives away, I realise that I never told him my name at all. 

 

***

 

A familiar bell chimes as I push the door of the diner open, the smell inside washing over me, and it feels surreal that I ever even forgot about it. 

 

“We’re closed,” a voice says, and it’s like a weight is lifted off my chest even if my stomach’s still in knots. I recognise this voice, remember the way it’d yell my name from inside the kitchen while I was out here waiting tables. I remember making fun of it when it’d suddenly go high pitched during our teenage years, remember the whispers in our shared room at night. 

 

The guy I remember would’ve asked a thousand questions, would’ve crossed his arms as I answered, huffed and said “I told you so;” but the person standing behind the counter as I walk into the empty diner drops his dishcloth as his eyes widen, an incredulous yet bright smile appearing on his features as he recognises me. His hair’s slightly longer now, framing his face with soft curls that I didn’t know he had. 

 

We go back a long time, Bill and I. He was younger than I was when he landed in this place, a skinny kid of barely fourteen, already condemned to a life without love. But he wasn’t like me. He was dead set on proving all of them wrong right from the beginning, that the colour of his blood wouldn’t have to influence the way he’d live his life. Not here. He was never going to be the guy sitting alone on the street corner. 

 

“Ryan.” 

 

The sparkle in his eyes as he rounds the bar to come meet me seems to prove that he’s managed it, somehow. It almost seems unfair that he’s the one that’s happy, not having taken any risks, leading a quiet life in a city that’ll accept him the way he is, when I’m the one who tried. I tried so hard, and now I’m back here, where I started, with my tail between my legs and a broken, blackened heart. 

 

“Fuck, Ryan— What are you doing here?” His hand claps on my back as he pulls me in for a hug, and I drop my backpack to the vinyl floor before embracing him too, sighing in relief. I don’t need to answer the question, and he’s not expecting me to either; it’s more of a greeting anyway. He doesn’t seem to hold anything against me anymore, and I suddenly want to just sit down and talk to him, learn how he’s been. Laugh with him. Things don’t change around here, but somehow he always finds something to say. Something to keep the brain cells going, even if most people here have stopped using them at all. It’s easier that way; not to think too much, not to think of what we really are outside of this town, to the rest of the world. 

 

“You hungry?” He asks when we finally let go of each other. I love that this is the first actual question he asks me. Talking’s easier on a full stomach is the motto around here, though I’m still not quite sure who came up with it and why it makes sense, but it does. Bill’s still smiling, like he can’t quite believe I’m back, and I can’t either. My stomach growls and he lets out a short laugh, glancing down briefly, like he’s trying to gauge whether I’ve gotten skinnier or not. “Yeah, thought so. C’mon, I think I have some pancake batter left in the fridge. Man, I can’t believe you’re here.” 

 

I smile back at him, scanning the features that were once familiar. I can’t quite believe I’m here, either. “Thanks, Bill.” 

 

He waves his hand as if to say that it’s no problem, that I’m always welcome here, no matter what. Given our past, that’s more than generous of him. He could just throw me out, pretend I never dropped by. I look around as I follow him towards the kitchen. It’s insane; this place hasn’t changed one bit since I left. The lights above the bar seem brighter than I remember but still the same colour, casting a warm orange glow over the counter. I wonder if he had them replaced with the same bulbs, just for nostalgia's sake. The chairs are neatly pushed back under the tables, which are wiped clean. Bill always was the neat one out of the two of us. The four booths that lined one side of the room are still there. I remember we used to play cards in them when customers were scarce; I was shitty at cards back then, and I’m sure I still am. William glances back at me and follows my gaze to the booths. 

 

“I had those changed,” he says, nodding towards the red vinyl seats. “They were getting nasty. Jack was weirdly attached to the old ones but I got too many complaints, so they had to go.” 

 

The mention of our old boss stirs a part of my brain awake, one that hasn’t been touched in years, ever since I left. Bill is clearly in charge these days, but I hadn’t even thought of the name until now and suddenly memories flood my mind. Those few years were probably the happiest in my life, and they’ll probably hold that title forever, too. I was a kid, oblivious, sheltered, with a friend and a kind adult presence by my side. I didn’t know to cherish it back then, even if my own parents were too damn irresponsible to keep me around. Some things you only learn once you’re not a kid anymore. 

 

William pushes the kitchen door open and turns the lights on; everything’s clean in here too, the counters spotless. I remember the mess I used to make in here, my attempts at making the weirdest flavours of pancakes. Jack always let us, laughing his hearty laugh as I battled my way through the maple syrup. I haven’t seen him yet, but maybe he’s just napping. He always liked naps but never got to take them because of how busy the diner always was; now that it’s in Bill’s hands, he can rest. 

 

There’s a menu on the kitchen counter and I pick it up. It’s not the one I remember, but I didn’t really expect it to be the same after this long either. Jack was never one for seasonal menus, buteveryone likes a bit of novelty sometimes. William goes to open the fridge door, on the other side of the room and pulls a huge bowl out of it; my stomach rumbles at the thought of warm pancakes. Warm, homemade pancakes. I quickly scan the menu, just to see what kind of shit he’s serving these days. Waffles. Pancakes. Bacon. Nothing unusual for a diner in a small town like Sylmar. 

 

I notice he doesn’t have caramel sauce listed, though. It’s always been my favourite, so I ask him about it as he pulls a pan out of one of the many, many drawers this kitchen has. 

 

“No,” he says, setting the pan on the stove before making his way to the huge fridge again, on the other side of the room. Ha. He forgot the butter. “I took it off the menu. You know I always ended up burning it.” 

 

I chuckle. “You _still_ do? Thought you’d have gotten some kind of, I dunno, technique or something since then.” 

 

I remember the first time he’d tried making that godforsaken caramel. I’ve never met anyone who can fuck up sugar and water that badly, but William always did; there was something about the temperature and the stirring that just ticked him off, always: William Beckett was simply not born to make caramel. “I can’t believe you still can’t make caramel,” I mutter, and he hits me lightly in the shoulder as he makes his way back to the stove, butter in hand. Just like he used to. 

 

“I can’t believe you’re still an asshole,” he says, in the same tone as I did. I snort as he scrapes a little bit of butter into the pan, glancing back at me. This is going so much better than I imagined. We’re making pancakes and calling each other names. 

 

Well, _he_ ’s making pancakes and calling me names, but that’s just a nuance, and I probably deserve it anyway. There were about thirty-two alternate scenarios, and this is the best one. 

 

“It’s weird.” 

 

Bill cocks an eyebrow. “What is?” 

 

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the counter. “Nothing’s changed at all. It’s like I never left.” 

 

He shrugs. “That’s Sylmar for you. You can come back in fifty years and it’ll still be the same,” he says, and he’s not wrong. People like their comfort, their little bubble of safety tucked away from the rest of the world’s reality. The batter sizzles in the pan as he pours it in, already smelling amazing. I tell him so, and he frowns, smiling at me like I’m dumb.

 

“LA really lowered your standards, huh?” 

 

I smile and say nothing. It’s true that I haven’t had pancakes in months, because I was too lazy to make them for myself, and mainly because Brendon preferred waffles. William pours the batter into the pan, and I can’t believe I thought of him again. It’s fucking ridiculous.

 

“What have you been up to?” He asks, and no matter how much he’s grown since I left, he’s still the same guy that can’t bear facing silence, especially between us. We shared a room for over four years, through our teenage dissatisfactions and vocal mutations. There wasn’t much we didn’t share. 

 

But I can’t bring myself to tell him about Brendon. Not yet. 

 

“Classes,” I say, even if I stopped going aeons ago, simply because there’s nothing else I can tell him. “And meeting people.” Breezy. Tyler. Not Brendon. Never Brendon. “LA’s much less exciting than we thought it was, you know. Full of tourists and shit. You wouldn’t like it.” 

 

Bill shudders dramatically and flips the pancakes. “Oh, Lord. Tourists.” 

 

I used to dream aloud, sprawled across my twin bed in the room we shared, and he’d listen to my LA dreams, quiet and attentive. I dreamed big for a kid with black blood. Sometimes it was about being in a band, brandishing an instrument I never learned to play. Other times it’d simply be a quiet life, a nice apartment. A job that’d let me be just rich enough to afford to feed someone else. Maybe two someone elses. Funny how that turned out. 

 

Bill flips the pancakes again to make sure they’re just golden-brown enough on both sides before sliding them onto a plate, and I stop thinking about the could’ve-beens. I could live and die in the opportunities I’ve missed. 

 

“Maple syrup’s in the cupboard there,” he says, pointing to somewhere near my head. I open said cupboard and grab the small bottle in it. It’s half empty. 

 

“I don’t know how you remember where everything is in this kitchen, dude. My apartment in LA was barely bigger. My _entire_ apartment. And shit got lost all the time.” 

 

“That literally has nothing to do with the size of your apartment, Ryan. That’s your own fault.” 

 

“Says the guy who can’t make caramel at the ripe old age of twenty-three.” 

 

Bill starts protesting but I grab the plate and waltz out of the kitchen, sitting myself down at the first table I see. Grabbing the syrup, I realise there’s a cruel lack of cutlery around the plate. 

 

“Hey, Bill?” 

 

He walks out of the kitchen, inquisitive, the dirty pancake pan in hand. Knowing him, he’s already cleaning everything up, returning the kitchen to its initial, spotless state. 

 

“What, you ungrateful slob?” 

 

“I’d be considerably less of a slob if I had a fork and a knife, to eat the pancakes you so nicely made me.” 

 

I flash him an exaggerated grin; he rolls his eyes and gestures to the bar. “They’re behind the counter. Don’t act like you don’t know, you lived here for like four years.” 

 

“Three!” I yell after him and he flips me off over his shoulder with his free hand as he walks back in. I can’t help but smile as I get up, walk up to the bar and reach over it into the cutlery holder. Old habits don’t change. We fall right back in. 

 

I dig in as the water starts running back in the kitchen, presumably to wash that pan Bill was holding. I don’t know how he has the motivation to do it, considering this place has a dishwasher and that pans are just a pain to clean. I stare through the glass pane of the diner’s doors, into the darkening street, and a glowing sign catches my eye. It’s a tattoo shop, and I swear it wasn’t here when I left because there’s no way I would’ve forgotten about it and its blue neon letters. 

 

I think of Tyler and his ink-clad arms, the black rings that were completely impossible to miss. It was a bold choice to make, a statement guided by either anger, grief, or guilt. Maybe all three. I hope he’s alright.

 

He’s out here somewhere, just a text, a phone call away. The thing is, he knew Brendon. He’s seen us stumbling out of an elevator, seen our flustered expressions and our unkempt clothes. Seen my happiness firsthand. He knew, and there’s no way I can face him now, though Tyler doesn’t seem the type to say “I told you so.” 

 

But it’s not the “I told you so” I’m afraid of. It’s the pity. The pity of a peer, of an Ashen. Someone who's lost just as much as I have, and yet that’d feel sorry for me. There’s no way I’m seeing Tyler or the bottomless sorrow in his eyes.

 

“Are they good?” Bill sits down across from me, a dishcloth on his shoulder and his hair tied back. He’s right; it’s probably easier to wash up when you can see what you’re cleaning, and it looks surprisingly good on him, too. 

 

“What?” 

 

“The mailmen.” He looks at me and I stare back. What the fuck is he talking about? Mailmen? William pinches the bridge of his nose, feigning annoyance, but he's clearly trying not to laugh. “The pancakes, Ryan. I’m talking about the pancakes.” 

 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, they’re good. Fluffy, just the way I like ‘em. Thanks.” 

 

“Good,” he smiles, pulling the dishcloth off of his shoulder and crumpling it in his hands. I motion to the sign I noticed earlier. 

 

“That’s a new thing, right? The tattoo parlour,” I say, setting my knife and fork down on my plate. The pancakes really were good. Better than I remember them to be. 

 

Bill twists around in his seat to get a look at the shop across the street before turning back to face me. “Yeah, it opened about a year ago, I think. Gotta give it to them that this is the only place their business works.” 

 

“Mhm.” People stream into this place constantly. People turn black-blooded every day, and I refuse to think about what percentage of those new Ashens end their own lives before giving themselves a chance. 

 

“I think I wanna get something.” The only perk of being an Ashen is probably having the possibility of getting patterns inked onto your skin, and I’ve waited long enough. I’m not going to pass up on the opportunity, though it seems like a meagre one to miss compared to the ones I’ve already let slip.

 

“What would you get?” Bill says as he stands up and pulls the dishcloth halfway through one of the belt loop of his jeans. It looks dumb, but his whole diner-owner aesthetic makes it work. 

 

“I dunno yet,” I answer, standing up too and picking the plate up. “I’ll figure it out.” 

 

“Take your time.” He steps toward the counter, presumably to resume whatever I interrupted by barging in unannounced. Not that he seems to mind, by this point. “You can just put the plate in the sink, I’ll do it later,” he says, picking up a clean glass and putting it away. 

 

“Alright.” 

 

As I make my way out of the kitchen, I recognise the door behind which is the staircase that leads to the living area. 

 

“Is he upstairs?” 

 

I don’t exactly want to go back there right away. Up there, above the diner, is a tiny apartment that the three of us shared, the very apartment I ran away from four years ago now. I know I’m going to have to stay there, but I don’t think I can go up just yet. Not sure whether I’ve made my peace with it. If Bill even lets me stay, that is, but we’re definitely off to a good start. 

 

Bill looks up from the glass he picked up to put away as I walk up to him. “Who?” 

 

“Your boyfriend. You know, the one you keep hidden in the closet and that you never bothered to tell me about? That one. Obviously.” 

 

He frowns and I roll my eyes. William’s good at sarcasm, but only when he’s the one delivering it. 

 

I sigh and lean forward. “I’m talking about Jack, Bill. Is he upstairs?” 

 

Who else? Maybe he even has a family hiding under the counter. That’d be funny. Two dark blooded kids, maybe around the same age we were. But his eyes darken and his jaw clenches, and he looks away from me, like my question’s offensive. It’s definitely not a family. There’s something off.

 

“No— No, he’s not.” 

 

Fuck, there’s definitely something wrong here. The atmosphere in the room’s changed completely, and I don’t fucking like it one bit. William takes a deep breath. 

 

“He passed away, Ryan. It’s been two years now.”

 

I blink and step back from the counter, not sure how to process this. 

 

Dead? 

 

Jack, the guy that brought us up, the guy that would make sure we had enough food on our plates and enough clothes on our backs, dead? 

 

I swallow, my throat dry. “How did he— I mean, what happened?” 

 

He looks down at his hands like he doesn’t really know how to answer that question. 

 

“He had a heart attack,” he says finally, still refusing to look at my face. His hands aren’t shaking, but I can tell this is still affecting him. He was never one to let things go easy. I’m an idiot to have believed so. “A bad one.” 

 

Guilt stabs at me. If Jack hadn’t taken us in, we’d probably both be dead now, and I wasn’t even here to see him one last time. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

“You would’ve known if you’d stayed.” 

 

“So I didn’t deserve to know, is that it? I didn’t deserve to know because I decided to leave this fucking town, just because I didn’t want to stay and die here?” 

 

“No.” His voice is trembling slightly, and I know I’ve gone too far. “You didn’t deserve to know because you left without saying goodbye, Ryan. Without leaving a note, nothing. You left like a fucking thief and you broke Jack’s heart.” 

 

_And mine, too_. 

 

Those are the words he’s holding back, the ones that he said four years ago, the ones that I didn't want to hear, much less understand. A teenager running away from the familiarity that had suddenly become daunting, just because it held the prospect of a life I didn’t want to lead. 

I wouldn’t have settled down and moved in with William somewhere else, not without having had at least one taste of real life, but he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand, so I had to leave, had to run away with a backpack stuffed with clothes and dreams. He thought he loved me. He thought we could grow old together. Be a family, the two of us. Two broken boys. 

 

Bill breathes in deeply. “I’m letting you stay just because I know how much he loved you, Ryan. That’s the only reason. Because he would’ve wanted me to let you stay.” 

 

“Then maybe I shouldn’t have come back,” I say drily, and William doesn’t flinch. It’s too much for me. Brendon, and now Jack. Losing two people I love, _loved_ in the span of two days, and having a third looking at me like I don't deserve to be standing where I am. I can’t stay here. I can’t fucking stay here. 

 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he snaps, and the only thing I think of doing is to grab my backpack from the vinyl floor and reach the door in a few strides, and push it open, stepping onto the pavement. The bell chimes again, only this time its familiarity seems to be laughing at me. I take a shaky breath and close my eyes. 

 

I have nowhere to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is also named after Jack Twist from brokeback mountain!


	20. Someone Who Cares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been too long

_[3 missed calls]_

 

Fuck. 

 

I clutch my phone as I sit in the crowded waiting room, trying my best not to call him back, or imagine what he would’ve said if I had picked up. How he would’ve sounded, if I could have made out the pain in his voice. There are no voicemails, no texts. Just three attempts to reach me, in the form of one single line of text on my screen. 

 

Only three. Why three? 

 

I turn my phone back off and try to ignore the guilt creeping into my brain and focus on the distress emanating from every other person here instead. There’s a girl in a red dress, her skin ashy and her veins dark, hiding her face in her hands as her shoulders shake silently. I try not to imagine her backstory, even if everyone else in this room is. We’re at each other’s mercy, desperately trying to spot someone weaker than us for reassurance. To know that we’re not at the bottom, not yet. 

 

A middle aged man with a bottle in a paper bag leans against the wall on the other side of the room. We make eye contact briefly and he turns away fast, like it hurts to acknowledge his own presence here. A guy in a suit, his briefcase probably lost somewhere between here and his previous life. The only thing we have in common is our blood tint. That’s all. 

 

This is the place for the lost, the broken. The recently turned, those who just started wearing their bereavement on their skin in permanent mourning. They have nowhere to go, just like me. The front door opens and slams shut again. It’s a woman, probably in her late twenties, her eyes wild, like she can’t quite believe she’s here. God, they must stream in all day. 

 

They. We. 

 

It’s so easy to forget that I’m one of them when he had me convinced otherwise for months. Despite the veins that I’ve begun to see as just another flaw on my skin, like a beauty mark or a freckle. With him, that was all they were. And I was more than that. I was something better in his eyes, something that wasn’t just a few litres of black blood running in the veins of a hopeless case. I like to think that he cherished me, cherished us, whatever it was. But I can’t bear the idea of him hurting. 

 

I look around the room again and remember when I used to run past here to go to the grocery store, how I always thought that the people in here must be horrifyingly pitiful. Funny how things change. 

 

The girl finally pulls her hands away from her face and I can tell it’s streaked with tears that won’t dry for days. I used to be thankful to never have met my soulmate before they died; used to be grateful to have missed out on the pain despite the dirty looks LA gave me. There are so many things I used to be. 

 

I tell myself that his was never one of those things as I stare at the posters plastered on the walls, yellowed sheets with various catchy phrases begging us unconvincingly not to end it, because there’s still life ahead of us, because there are still people to meet. It’s easy to tell they weren’t designed by someone black-blooded, as if they’d ask us to participate in the way this country is governed. Nah, we don't get a say in how we manage our own lives. Fake enthusiasm and colourful paper doesn’t cut it.  

 

The painted door at the back of the room creaks open and a blonde head pokes out from behind it. The woman it belongs to looks like those girls in those vintage commercials, perfectly curled blonde hair over a pair of eyes so blue I can tell their colour all the way from here. She’s wearing a white, perfectly ironed shirt, and she’s not an Ashen. She’s sent here by the government to do their dirty work; find homes for people who lost theirs. 

 

“Next!” 

 

Her voice is shrill, like she can’t wait for this work day to be over. Like this is just any other day. More lost, black-blooded assholes to deal with. Maybe she goes home every night and complains about it to whoever it is that shares her life. A roommate, a friend. A spouse. Someone who cares. 

 

The girl in red stands up at the call, not bothering to smooth down the crumples in her skirt. Her brown hair’s a mess, and I wonder if someone used to run their fingers through it. If they used to lie on their bed, tangled in each other, just like Brendon and I used to. 

 

I look down at my phone again. The line of text is still there. I don’t know why I thought it’d magically disappear, maybe having combusted in my hands. There, that’d distract me. Make me feel something other than guilt.  

 

I focus back on the girl as she makes her way towards the back of the room, followed by too many pairs of eyes to count. No one knows where she’ll end up, not even her. I don’t think about it too much. Don’t think about how I’ll be the one everyone stares at, in a minute. One more guy assigned to a random apartment with two or three other poor souls, each with less purpose than the other, counting the days til they get to join their other half.   

 

I hear the door open again but don’t bother looking; maybe because it’s just another lost face that I don’t want to see. More spidering veins, perhaps tear-stained cheeks as a bonus. I don’t look, because that person may just look like me. And I don’t know if I can take that; this place, these people are already reminder enough. 

 

“Ryan.” 

 

But, fuck, that’s a familiar voice. Too familiar to be here for something other than me. 

 

Bill’s eyes are wide as I take him in, like he can’t quite believe he ended up finding me, like he never expected to just walk in and see me here. Maybe he thinks I can go back to wherever I came from, back to sunny LA where I never did belong. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that. I can feel the stares on us, burning into my skin, because no one here is supposed to be familiar with any other Ashen. Everyone here is a newbie, and everyone here is desperately alone.  

 

Not me. Not him.

 

No, we’re not new guys. We’ve learned how to deal with grief, right? We’re the lucky ones. 

 

I don’t have time to ask him what he’s doing here so soon or thank him for coming after me because I really, _really_ don’t have anywhere else to go; he grabs my hand and shoots me a dark look as he pulls me outside of the waiting room and into the corridor. I can’t help but notice a potted plant so similar to the one that used to be in the classroom I used to go to. God, that feels like another lifetime. What happened since then? What happened to the awkward guy holding a dead leaf and to the cup of coffee discarded at the foot of the couch? 

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

 

I blink away the image of the blood on Brendon's lips and stare at Bill, unsure of what he wants me to answer. 

 

“I thought you wanted me to leave,” I say eventually, and he turns away in what seems like frustration, but he did. He told me I shouldn’t have come, and he was right. I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have disturbed the routinely peace that his days have turned into. He’s clearly found something to do, something to keep his hands occupied and his mind happy. And I don’t think I have the right to break that. Not when I’ve already broken his heart, once. 

 

“No,” he blurts out, turning back to face me. “No, Ryan, I never want you to leave! I just need you to fucking— to understand how shitty of you it was to just run away like that! Okay?” He tries to steady his breathing and his cheeks are flushed a dark grey, something that I haven’t seen in too long. I wonder for a second what he’d look like with crimson blood. If he’d be different, how far in life he’d be. “I don’t want you to leave,” he repeats quietly, and for a split second I see the lost kid that I met all those years ago. Understand what my presence meant to him. “I’ve been deserted too many times, Ry, please,” he continues, his hands clasped together like he always does when he’s upset. His eyes are bright, a shade lighter than the ones I’m used to looking into. “Please come home.” 

 

Home. 

 

He’s right again, it is home. For three years, it was. Him and Jack, the red booths and the wooden counter. The customers that came in every day.

 

I suddenly remember the old lady that would always leave tips for both of us, calling us her boys. Telling us we reminded her of her son, who she believed was happy and living in New York; I still don’t know if that’s true. Maybe it was just something she’d made up to fight loneliness, as if her life would make more sense if she had someone to live it for. Someone on the other side of the country who still cared about her. I look at William and I see just that, someone who cares. In his eyes, in the way that he’s twisting the fabric of his shirt because he’s unsure of what I’ll say. Because he cares. And that’s probably more than I deserve right now. 

 

I don’t think of the shitty hotel room in Seattle, or my apartment in LA. This is the present, now. This is my home. Where I belong. 

 

“Yeah,” I hear myself say as I shoulder my backpack, and Bill blinks, a relieved smile spreading on his face. I won’t desert him again. He’s the constant in my life, no matter what. 

 

“Yeah, let’s go home.” 

 

***

 

We leave the Redistribution Centre in silence and I cast a last glance at the big illuminated sign above the door that declares it as so. Redistribution, like we’re goods that need to be dispatched to different areas of the city, like we’re barely sentient. We could be androids or robots for all the government cares. And the Centre’s open 24/7, too. You never know when you’re gonna lose your soulmate; gotta have somewhere to go. People probably spend days there, when it’s too crowded, when there’s too much desperation and not enough blonde employees to cram it into two bedroom apartments. 

 

It’s dark outside and the street’s almost empty but for a few people hurrying to get home. No teen parties, no late night strolls for anyone. Those are things that belong in the past, in cities like LA and Vegas. Not for us. It’s too frivolous for us. 

 

“Hey, look,” Bill points to a poster that I can barely make out in the darkness, but I recognise the name instantly — Nicole Row. The poster child of what they tell us Ashens could be, the very top of  our broken pyramid. Every Ashen kid knows about Nicole Row. 

 

Turned Ashen when she was just ten, Nicole wasn’t abandoned by her parents, unlike most of us. Instead, they moved here, to the only place near LA where they knew she could grow up as normally as possible. But she didn’t. That would make the story end there, and you don’t become famous among black-blooded folks just because you have normal parents. 

 

Probably due to the parental love she didn’t lack, she was an accomplished guitarist and bassist by 15, and scored a record deal at 16, somehow. And up she went. Wrote a bunch of songs, most of which were hits in our little shitty town, because people like to know that they can be _something_ , too. And now, at barely 17, she performs for her people. Or did, looking at the date on the poster. April 12. Just before most of my life got wrecked by a few drops of blood. 

 

I’ve never really given Nicole a chance, and that’s because there’s no way she got where she is without some kind of behind-the-scenes action. Some planned agenda from up high to get her in the charts and keep us in check. 17 year olds are too easy to manipulate, too easy to make fake advertisement of. None of us can do it like she did. None of us have that chance. 

 

But people listen to her, because she’s like them. Because she represents this beacon of hope that maybe, just maybe, it can get better. Layers upon layers of bullshit. 

 

“I heard she moved near here a couple of months ago,” Bill adds, staring almost longingly at the poster. “But I haven’t seen her around yet. Not that I really go out that much ‘cause of the diner, but y’know.” He shrugs and we start walking again. “Guess I’m just hoping she’ll walk in or something.” 

 

“Who knows, maybe she will.” 

 

It’s a short walk back, and William locks the door of the diner behind us after we get in. I spot the dishcloth he had looped in his jeans on one of the empty tables, and picture him throwing it on there after I left. I’m never doing that shit again. Never hurting him again, not when he’s taken me back so many times. I think of Jack and how much I must’ve disappointed him. I don’t really know what to do to make up for that. William turns back to me, shoving the keys into his pocket. He looks so tired, suddenly, so I tell him the first thing that seems logical right then.  

 

“I’ll help you out with the diner, yeah?” 

 

He nods and smiles wearily, running a hand over his face then through his hair. “Yeah, thanks. I’m a little short on staff these days. You still remember how to wait?” 

 

I smile back, remembering how we used to complain to each other about having to pick up the dirty dishes and smile at horrible customers. Yeah, I sure haven’t forgotten how to do that. 

 

“As long as you don't fanboy about Nicole all day long, I’m good,” I reply, and he chuckles and mutters something that sounds like “Good” before going to turn off the lights above the bar, leaving the small lightbulb near the door to the second floor the only source of light. 

 

“I’m gonna go get some water,” I tell him before starting towards the kitchen, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. God, I can’t wait to pass the fuck out on whatever William’s making me sleep on.  Assuming it’ll be something other than the floor, but even that seems like a pretty good choice right now. 

 

“Hold on,” he says, and I turn back around to see what he wants, but suddenly he’s right next to me, leans in and kisses me quickly, his lips warm against mine. I blink, still feeling his mouth even if he’s pulled away faster than I can process. 

 

“Thanks for coming back,” he says before disappearing swiftly behind the door, faster than I thought him capable of. I hear him walk up the stairs as I stand in the darkened room, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Did he just thank me? Did he just _kiss_ me? 

 

But then, after the shock goes away, I realise I could do this. William’s attractive, that anyone who’s seen him could tell, and I’m not eighteen anymore. I can make more than impulsive choices. I can make rational ones, like staying with him. Forgetting everything outside of this diner; I could do that. Try to build a life that’s not based on fear of loss and instability, not tied to dark brown eyes and full lips. 

 

And maybe that’s why I climb up the stairs with resolution, maybe that’s why I drop my bag at the foot of William’s bed and kiss him before he can finish the sentence he started when I walked in. 

 

I kiss him, and it doesn’t feel wrong. It’s not right, either, but it doesn’t feel empty like it did with Tyler. I kiss him and I can feel the smile on his face as he kisses me back, as I run my hands up his bare shoulders, because he must be sleeping shirtless now. We’re men now, we’re grown. We make rational decisions like making out like teenagers on a single bed. I kiss his neck and he gasps softly, his scent so familiar even if I haven’t seen him in years. My eyes are closed and I will myself not to let my mind wander, not to picture Brendon beneath me like it’s so tempting to do. 

 

This is home, William is home. It was all along, and everything led me back here. There’s nowhere else to go. 

 

***

 

I splash water on my face before looking into the mirror, at my tired eyes and the grey beneath them. I could take a shower but it feels like my limbs are refusing to cooperate for anything other than bringing me to bed. William said we could share his, at least until we find sheets for the bed next door, but we both know I might just stay here for the rest of time. Sleep near him; I’m not sleeping alone. 

 

My phones buzzes on the side of the sink and my eyes are drawn to it almost automatically, drawn to the message that appeared on the screen, on top of the picture of Brendon I haven’t yet had the heart to change even if I know I need to. William can’t see it, he’d ask too many questions I don’t want to answer. My heart drops to the ground when I realise who it’s from, even if it’s not a surprise because no one else ever bothers to text me. 

 

_[00:33am] Brendon: please come home_

 

I take a deep breath and stare at the phone, just an arm’s length away. I could go. I could, right? We could pretend. I wonder where he is, right now. If he’s still in Seattle, or if he’s already made it back to LA. If he went to my apartment, if he checked on El. 

 

Fuck, El. I should go get her, but getting her back from Brendon’s friend means questions, and he’ll find out where I am one way or another, and I can’t have that; what matters right now is that I stay here, lay low. Figure out a routine to put up. A daily life to build. With William.  

 

So I get out of the bathroom and leave my phone on the sink, walk back to the bedroom where William’s already asleep, his face peaceful, the hint of a smile on his lips. I turn the lights off and slip under the covers, but I don’t fall asleep like I thought I would. I stare at the ceiling. 

 

This is it. I am home. This is where I belong.

 

* * *

  
Nicole's tour poster!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTU0itbnvk4&t=0s) an amazing trailer my friend matt did for this fic! im still not over it tbh


	21. Man-Made Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took me two months i kn owwwww im so sorry  
> but thank you for sticking around. i appreciate that more than you know.

 

And it’s scary how fast I get used to the rhythm of life in the diner again, as though this was where I was always meant to be. Like my own body knows me better than I do, like this small diner is the only right place for me, and sometimes I wake up next to Bill instead of in the next room over. 

 

Right now, his light brown eyes are soft, full of sleep that hasn’t quite faded away yet. A smile creeps onto his face as he realises I’m awake.

 

“Mmm. Morning, stalker.” My voice is unsurprisingly croaky, just like every morning. I always sound like a guy who’s smoked his entire life, or one of those almost fossilised rock stars who still yells into a mic because the royalties aren't enough to cover his bad spending habits. It’d be nice to live like that and die at sixty-three of a heart attack in my dressing room. Have papers print my name, the country mourn me. Not having to find my soulmate because they’d find me instead. 

 

Bill shifts to set the pillow between his arm and head, the other hand coming to brush hair out of my eyes, something he never would’ve dared back then. He’s bolder, but somehow never once went out of bounds. Never asked why I’d always stop him when his hands traveled down to the button of my jeans, because he doesn’t pry. Maybe he’s scared of what he’ll find out. I don’t know. Maybe he’s just not interested enough. 

 

“Your hair’s so much longer,” he says in a half-whisper, although we have no one to hide from anymore. His thumb traces my cheek lightly and my eyelids are still heavy, so I indulge them for a few moments more. I don’t know what time it is, but the alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which means we still have some time before having to open up the diner. It’s almost routine now, getting up early and making sure everything is clean before going to flip the sign on the door. There are no neon lights for it, because Jack hated them. Always said it made it look tacky, and now the tattoo shop sign across the street has enough neon for all of us. I open my eyes and look at William.

 

“My parents never let me have it long back when I was living with them. Said it made me look homeless. What kind of parent tells their kid that?” I sigh, a brief flash of a memory passing in front of my eyes, my father snapping at me. “But yeah, I couldn’t be bothered to cut it at first, and then it just grew on me, I guess.” 

 

“I like it. It’s different, but I like it,” he says, and I try not to mind that he missed the pun. And no matter how hard I try not to notice it, I know that Brendon would’ve gotten it so easily, and probably punched me in the shoulder for it. And I know all William’s focusing on right now is ignoring the mention of my parents. It’s always made him uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to think about the fact that we both had lives before ending up here. I guess we’re both masters of the art of denial. He plays with one of my curls. “LA’s done a good job.”

 

I huff and roll on my back, letting my eyes travel to the far corner of the ceiling because I don’t want to look at Bill right now; I’d find myself searching for something that isn’t there. “Dunno about that, honestly.” The only thing LA’s succeeded in is to bring a boy I could never have into my life. Doesn’t count as good, if you ask me. I personally file that under _Really Fucking Bad,_ right beneath getting kicked out of my own house by parents that were too irresponsible to keep me around.

 

“Did you meet a lot of people there?” I hear him shift and roll on his back as well, folding his hands over his chest. “I remember you said something about classes when you arrived,” Bill says, and I breathe out deeply. I’ve been here four months and this isn’t the first time he’s asked me, and I can’t stay vague anymore. Can’t keep pretending I know nothing of my own life in LA. 

 

Life in LA overall was pretty good, actually. An affordable apartment, a dog. A routine that I’d gotten into and not hated, but somehow the bad outweighs the good every time. I know I couldn’t walk into my apartment now and not see him standing there, or sleep in my sheets knowing they’ll keep some of his scent no matter how many times I put them in the washing machine. He’s not there anymore, but he’s everywhere. I’d let him into my bloodstream, and Brendon wasn’t a drug you could detox from. There’s no waiting this one out, either. It’s just accepting, and moving on. 

 

“Yeah, there was this guy,” I say, sitting up against the wall and pulling my legs to my chest, the coolness of the surface piercing my shirt even if it’s only late August. If I tell him a little, maybe it’ll sate his curiosity. It’s odd he’s even curious at all; William was always satisfied by everything around him, never yearning for more. Being an Ashen, that’s probably a good trait to have. I look at him, his tangled hair and brown eyes. “Tyler. He was an Ashen too.” 

 

Bill’s eyes widen as he sits up, mirroring me. “Shit, really?” 

 

“Yeah.” Ashens in big cities are rare because very few people can take all the shit from the others, and we were the exceptions. “Met him in one of those classes I was taking. We were the only two. He’s moved back here since, though.” 

 

We all seem to, eventually. We all crack for one reason or another, all run back to Sylmar to find refuge in the familiar, the similar. I think of the weariness in his eyes, that evening in December, of how paralysing the idea of him ending his life was. And that’s all I’m willing to remember of that night, because there isn’t much else I can look back on and feel happy about. 

 

“How is he? Have you called him since you got back?” Bill asks as the alarm on his phone goes off, the loud, insistent sound startling us both. He quickly turns to the bedside table and shuts it off, mumbling something that sounds vaguely like a curse. “We should get out of bed,” he says, but he’s already in motion, flipping the sheets to the side, and I’m so thankful I didn’t have to answer the question. I don’t have the heart to lie to him, but I follow him and hope he doesn’t mention it again - not before I’ve had the chance to make a story up about why I don’t want to see Tyler, anyway. 

 

It’s a quiet day in the diner today, which makes me all the more likely to look up from whatever I’m doing when the bell chimes, because maybe, just maybe, a familiar face will appear in the doorframe. Dark eyes, darker hair. But it’s never him. 

 

And that’s for the best, I tell myself. It’s for the best because I know that if he steps foot in this place, it won’t ever be safe again. He’ll take it over like he took over every part of my life so easily and make it his, selfishly, like he does. It’s for the best because I know that if he pushes this glass door open, I’ll leave with him in a heartbeat, breaking promises of staying here and live a quiet life, deserting William again. 

 

That’s why it’s good that he doesn’t walk in, why it’s good that he’s probably found his soulmate already. I can’t help but wonder if it was that blonde receptionist at the hotel in Seattle, or maybe that waiter in the restaurant. Maybe someone else entirely. Someone else whose heart doesn’t jolt every time the door opens because they’re expecting someone that’ll never come. 

 

Today, the person instilling the now-familiar mix of disappointment and relief in me as the bell chimes is Greta, coming in for her shift. I glance at the wall clock by habit, 5:45 on the display. She’s never late. 

 

“Well, someone sure looks pale today,” Greta jokes as she walks in and spots me behind the counter, looking radiant in her yellow uniform, just like she does almost every single day. I don’t know how she does it, but she always has a smile to give, always a nice thing to say to people around her. It’s almost as though she hasn’t been through all the shit her blood colour proves she has. 

 

Greta’s been around for a while, from what I’ve heard. Bill must've needed as much backup as possible after Jack passed and somehow, he found Greta. Her straw-coloured hair is pulled back into the mandatory bun, a few loose strands escaping from it to frame her thin face. Her mouth looks like it’s always about to break into a warm grin, and somehow I feel better when she’s around, like there’s an aura to her. She’s our best waitress, and William swears by her; she’s kind and understanding, getting the best out of the worst clients. Everyone needs someone like that in their lives. Someone who makes it all worth seem living just because of their presence. 

 

I shrug and chuckle half-heartedly, mindlessly wiping the counter one last time. “Yeah, I didn't sleep that well.” 

 

Greta tuts at me like a disapproving mother as she makes her way to the kitchen, already ready to trade her little brown handbag for a spotless apron. “You boys do unspeakable things at night, don’t you? What’d you do to my Ryan, Bill?” I hear her in the kitchen, the reproach clearly mingled with amusement in her voice. 

 

“Nothing!” I yell towards the other room, already feeling the burn of the flush in my cheeks. I can’t let Bill touch me like that— can’t let him see me like that. No one will get to anymore. I’ve learned my lesson, and I know too well that it leaves nothing good behind. “We’re good, pure boys, Greta!” 

 

I receive no answer, so they must be chatting away quietly, him telling her about how I always stop him, because it’s almost like she’s family. And that’s what family talks about, apparently. Jack did good on raising the two of us, but we never had those parent-kid talks, the ones about love, lust and other addictive substances, and it seems as though William’s found someone to confide in.

 

Soon enough, Greta walks back out with her apron on and a cup of coffee in hand, which she sets on the counter in front of me, shooting me a daring look. 

 

I stare at the cup and then back at her. “What?” 

 

She points her chin to the steaming cup between us. “Drink. You’ll be no use if there’s less energy in you than in that dishcloth you’re holdin’, and you know Chris is off today.” 

 

She has a point. Chris is our other waiter, but they only work together on weekends or if we’re particularly busy. On weekdays, they alternate, which is why I prefer Tuesdays and Thursdays. Chris throws me off, for a reason I can’t or don’t want to look into. Doesn’t really matter, either way. As long as the diner runs and there’s food on the customer’s tables, we’re good. 

 

I grab the cup and bring it up to my lips, blowing on in order not to burn my tongue on the liquid. My eyes dart around the room to check if every table’s clean as I take a careful sip, almost by habit. 

 

“Ryan.” She says in a tone I can’t seem to place, but it ties my stomach in knots instantly. “D’you know what day it is today?” 

 

I glance at the clock again, as if it told the date along with the time. “Uhh— Tuesday, right? You wouldn’t be in if it wasn’t a Tuesday.” I try not to think of what my routine used to be on Tuesdays as Greta plucks the dishcloth out of my hands and starts folding it again, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. She’s got something in the back of her mind, this one, but I haven’t yet figured out what. Can’t be that bad if she’s smirking at me, though. I’ve never seen Greta smirk before. 

 

“I know it’s Tuesday,” she says, turning away to the nearest table and wiping it again, even though I have just minutes before. “But what _day_ is it?” 

 

What’s it with her? Am I missing something?

 

“Fuck, Greta, I don’t know,” I say, setting the cup back down. “You know I don’t keep track of dates. Bill does that shit with his magnetic calendar.” 

 

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve made fun of him for the whiteboard calendar he has stuck on the huge refrigerator, a purchase only ever made by suburban mums of three, suddenly finding itself in a little Ashen diner in Sylmar. He says it keeps him organised, although I only ever see him scribbling things like _MORE EGGS!!!_ on one of the cases, without caring about what day it is whatsoever. I stare at Greta as she puts her hands on her hips, the dishcloth dangling from one of her closed fists. 

 

“What?”

 

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You really don’t know?” 

 

I hear glass shattering from the kitchen as I shake my head, immediately followed by Bill yelling my name in mild distress. It was such a familiar sound, only now his voice doesn’t go all high pitched on the second part, his vocal cords finally having calmed down after puberty decided to fuck with them. 

 

“You,” I point at Greta as I round the counter to go join Bill in the kitchen, because he’s probably let something slip and fall again. “You have some explaining to do.” 

 

Unsurprisingly, I find him helplessly hunched over a shattered bottle of what looks like oil, looking up as he hears me approaching. 

 

“Remind me to never try and grab anything with greasy hands again,” he mutters, and I crouch down next to him, noticing that he’s holding little pieces of broken glass, the oil running down his fingers and dripping back onto the kitchen tiles in little yellow dots. “You mind getting the mop? I don’t wanna use all the new kitchen paper on this bullshit.” 

 

“Yeah, sure,” I say, watching him trying to pick up the smaller pieces from the puddle as I stand back up. There’s something ridiculously comical about this, but I make sure not to say anything because he and his shards of glass are a potential danger right now. I scratch my head. “Uh— Remind me where the mop closet is again?” 

 

Bill looks up, shooting me a _you’re-a-disgrace-to-this-family_ look before making an attempt at tucking a piece of hair behind his ear with his wrist and failing miserably, the hair falling right back into his face. I don’t offer to help. 

 

“Upstairs, by the bathroom. Need me to guide you?” 

 

I flip him off as I make my way out of the kitchen, pushing open the door that leads upstairs. The closet’s easy to find, and I suddenly remember that we used to hide cigarettes in here, simply because Jack never bothered to open the door and William was always the one on mop duty. There was a loose brick in one of the unpainted walls and storing the cigarettes there satisfied the stupid teenage yearning to have secrets, because we had nothing else to hide. 

 

It’s still a small space, dark and cluttered, but my eyes are instantly drawn to the side of it, something unfamiliar, something that looks suspiciously like a guitar neck, leaning against the wall at the far back. I reach for it, pulling the instrument to me carefully. All six strings are intact, but there’s no way it was in this closet when I still lived here. 

 

“Bill?” I yell in the general direction of the stairs, but receive no answer; people have probably started flooding in for breakfast. Six o’clock is when it gets hectic, and I know I should hurry down but I just stare back at the closet, trying to make sense of why there’s a guitar in there. My eyes travel down to the floor, and I recognise the backpack I had when I arrived in Joe’s car. Fuck. What’s _that_ doing here? 

 

I know the polaroid camera’s still in the bag, along with pictures that I don’t want to look at. Pictures of a time I’m working too hard on forgetting, a time that keeps springing back into my mind even though they’re nothing I should be clinging onto, so I grab the mop and the guitar and slam the door shut with my foot. There. Polaroids are gone. 

 

“Bill!” I shout again as I make my way down the stairs, smiling politely at the customer I almost walk into as I close the door behind me. He looks at me, offended, but I don’t really have time to please him right now.

 

Barging into the kitchen with a mop in one hand and a guitar in the other must be a surprising sight because Bill stares at me like I just came back from jumping off a plane without a parachute, a fork in hand. The puddle of oil is still there by his feet, but it seems that he's moved on from mourning the shattered bottle, three pans already on the stove and a delicious smell emanating from one of them. I feel my mouth water. Bacon. 

 

“What are you doing with that?” 

 

“I was about to ask you why there’s a guitar in the mop closet,” I tell him, “but I just realised now may not be the best time.” 

 

He huffs, sticking his fork in one of the pans to make sure its contents isn’t burning. His apron is already dirty, but that’s nothing unusual; there’s a reason he washes it every night. “Congratulations, Sherlock.” 

 

Nope. That’s not how the phrase goes. I don’t point that out. 

 

He grabs the salt and shakes it firmly above another pan before tucking a piece of hair behind his ear again, more successfully this time. He glances at me, and then at the puddle, which snaps me out of the food-watching trance I got myself in. Propping the guitar up against the wall and grabbing the mop with two hands, I clean up the mess Bill made on the floor. 

 

“So?”

 

“So what?” He looks up at the order rack, which is already pretty full for a Tuesday morning. “God, I really need to hire another cook. Iero’s not coming back, is he?” 

 

Oh, yeah. I would've forgotten all about that guy if he wasn’t the reason Bill’s integrated swearing for a solid ten minutes into his daily routine. Frank was the guy Bill hired about a month before I arrived, and I’ve only seen him a grand total of three times since I started living here again. The dude is constantly sick, or at least claiming to be. Either way, not particularly beneficial to the diner. I don’t even know why he hasn’t been fired yet. 

 

“I don’t think so,” I say, rinsing the mop and leaving it to dry in an unused corner of the kitchen before going to lean against a counter as Bill transfers bacon and eggs from pan to plate. “You should fire him, though.”

 

He sighs, wiping a hand on his apron, more out of habit than need. “I don’t like firing people—”

 

I cross my arms. “He’s useless, Bill, you still wanna pay him? Don’t we have enough trouble maintaining the diner as it is?”  


William shrugs as Greta walks into the kitchen, which provides just enough distraction for me not to get frustrated with him; I hate it when he does that, giving an answer just vague enough so I don’t know what to say. He knows we can’t afford to pay someone who doesn’t work, but I don’t know why he won’t just fire him. Guess that’s something to figure out. 

 

“Is that a guitar?” Greta asks, amused, as she grabs the full plate to head back to the main room. Not surprised that she noticed.

 

“Yeah. It was in the mop closet, and _this_ guy won’t tell me why,” I tell her, poking Bill in the arm with my finger. He looks annoyed for a split second. 

 

I hear her chuckle as she disappears through the door frame, back into the wildness that is the customer service zone. She calls it her territory, and it’s funny to think of her as a feline, ferociously standing guard to make sure no one’s trespassing.

 

“I found it when I cleared the attic out after Jack passed,” Bill says eventually, pouring oil into one of the now-empty pans. Good thing we have shelves upon shelves of bottles and boxes, we barely ever run out. “Wanted to do something with it but I never did, I guess.” He clears his throat and I notice his cheeks are flushed, probably due to the heat of the stove. The oil sizzles, music to my empty stomach. 

 

“Right. Well, I’ve always wanted to learn, so maybe it’s a greater force telling me something.” 

 

“God?”

 

I think about that for a second. Would an old man in the sky send me, an Ashen, a mop-closet guitar so I can fulfil a small lifelong dream? 

 

“Nah. Not God. Some force.” 

 

I push myself off the counter and run a hand through my hair after a moment, after I make sure he’s not going to answer. We’ve always had diverging opinions on what exactly is up there, but he’s never forced me to go to church yet. “I think Greta needs me. Wish me luck out there.” 

 

“You’re only ever serving coffee and cleaning up tables, Ry,” I hear Bill say behind my back as I walk out of the kitchen, and I wave a dismissive hand at him over my shoulder. 

 

“I need luck! Oh, and bacon. Please make me some bacon.” 

 

———

 

“Ryan!” 

 

The familiar sound of Bill calling me comes from downstairs, even though I know it was closing time over an hour ago. He could just come upstairs and tell me whatever I need to know. 

 

“What?” I call back, suddenly reminded of us calling each other just like this when it was dinnertime and one of us was locked up in his room, which happens fairly frequently at 16. 

 

“Get down here!” 

 

I mumble a curse before swinging my legs over the side of the bed, putting down _1984._ And here I thought I was finally getting to kick back for the day. Have Orwell’s dystopia keep me company. 

 

Bill’s at the bottom of the stairs as I walk down the last steps, grinning, and someone’s standing next to him. Someone with slightly longer hair but shadows just as dark beneath his dark brown eyes. Someone I know from a lifetime ago. 

 

“Tyler?” 

 

He smiles lopsidedly, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. “Hi.” 

 

“What are you doing here?” 

 

It’s good to see him, but there’s also something strange, something wrong about it. He knew me in LA. He could probably pick out every way that I’ve changed since then, since four months ago when I last stepped foot there. 

 

Or he couldn’t. People don’t pay as much attention to detail. 

 

But he’s seen Brendon, and the fact that I’m here just means that something got fucked up somewhere along the way. That the blood’s triumphed again. 

 

“I live here,” he says, glancing at Bill as though he needs confirmation that he’s allowed to speak. Tyler’s like a wounded bird, even amongst his own. “I mean, not _here_ here, but Sylmar. I thought I told you.” 

 

“No, you did.” I remember it, Ty. I remember it too well. Don’t make me live that again. Not the stars, not the roof. The wishes, the New Year’s Eve. Please spare me. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you moved back? Where’s that other guy?” His eyes dart around the room, like he’s trying to find a third person that is decidedly not here. My heart contracts. “Brendon, right?” 

 

That’s it. I grab him by the arm, pull him away from Bill because I don’t want to explain. “There’s no Brendon anymore, okay? It’s over. I’m here now.” 

 

His eyes widen, finally catching on. Fuck, he really did need me to spell it out for him. “Oh, crap, I’m sorry,” he breathes. “God, Ryan, sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I—”

 

I don’t know what he was thinking, either.

 

I remember the taste of Brendon’s lips as we kissed in the elevator, on the roof, the wistful wish he pronounced as we held each other under the stars. The incomprehension that grabbed me then, how I so stupidly hoped he’d wish for me. 

 

He’d never wish for me. Being around certainly was compassion at best and pity at worst. Maybe he thought he could take me in and heal me from the ailing that plagues me, that his touch would soothe the disgusting fluid that runs through my body. Maybe that’s just what he does. Take in desperate Ashens, charity cases, and make them feel special before heartlessly tearing himself away. 

 

He could do that, with his beautiful eyes and perfect lips, he could draw people in, and it’s easier to blame him than to blame the system, because he’s so far away now. My eyes focus on Tyler, who’s fiddling nervously with the bottom of his jacket. I want to scream at him. 

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s just that I’m here now,” I say instead. He nods and I look at Bill, who’s still standing by the door but doesn’t say anything when we join him again apart from an unsteady “Come with me,” and I know he’ll ask me about it later. 

 

I push that thought to the back of my mind and ask Tyler how he found his way here as we follow Bill to the kitchen. He tells me that it was Bill who called him earlier today, and the only way that’s possible is if he went through my phone. Fuck, did he go through my phone? 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring a gift,” he adds, and suddenly the lights are out before I can ask him why, a multitude of little flames all that’s glowing in the darkened room. 

 

Fuck. Is it my birthday? Did I forget my goddamned birthday? 

 

“Oh, my God.” 

 

“Happy birthday to you,” they all start, and I pick out a feminine voice that has to be Greta’s in the bunch. I smile in the dark even if this situation doesn’t have that many things to smile about. Nice of her to have stayed after-hours, though. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, Ryan— Happy birthday to you!” 

 

“I’ve always hated that song,” I state, feeling my way towards the cake, realising that I’m still smiling, the muscles frozen in place. “Why do you have to repeat the same thing, like, four times? Find better lyrics, for God’s sake. A century and no one’s come up with anything better.” 

 

I think I’m just talking to drown out my mind, blabbing on to get away from the realisation that I could never do the noble thing with him. Never, in a few years’ time, stand in his kitchen and tell him how great his partner’s cooking is as we sip wine by the designer bar. 

 

Getting away from him the first time wasn’t selfless, either. The prospect of what could happen, what _did_ happen, was too daunting, but his hands and narrow hips overcame my fear of being hurt.How stupid. 

 

“Shut up and blow out your candles,” Greta’s voice cuts into my interior monologue, and a snort comes from somewhere on my right, so I do, and they all clap as I think about how stupid I was to have fallen for him. 

 

“So that’s what you were being all mysterious about today,” I tell Greta as she turns the lights back on, and she giggles. Tyler smiles at me, too. 

 

“I can’t believe you forgot your own birthday,” Bill adds, already picking the candles out. “That’s like Jack level absent-mindedness.” 

 

I laugh a little, remembering for a second just how often Jack used to forget things. It was mostly his glasses, though. Bill and I had become experts at exploring the nooks and crannies where they could’ve gotten lost, even if most of the time, they were just buried under paperwork. It’s a welcome thought. 

 

Greta offers me a tie and a black leather belt. “For business opportunities,” she says with a toothy smile, but I know it’s because she thinks I dress like an eighty year old, and that’s alright. 

 

Bill’s present is a felt hat, complete with a feather on the side. I thank him and hug all three of them, not without the hint of resentment for all the repressing I had to do because of today. Tyler, the backpack, my birthday.

 

Ironic how I _did_ expect to celebrate my birthday with company this year, that for the first time in four years, I was somehow excited to turn a year older. Because he’d be with me. 

And when he wasn’t anymore, I just forgot about it. Pushed it away so that this very day wouldn’t be sad and lonely like it had so many times before. 

 

We eat the cake and joke around before Greta grabs her bag, saying she needs to get home, and Tyler excuses himself too. We wave them out the door and I check my phone, unsurprised but feeling a twinge of disappointment at the lack of text messages on the home screen. My jaw sets. There’s a reason he hasn’t texted. He’s moved on, probably even forgot it was my birthday. Easy to set aside. 

 

I stare at the almost-empty street, silent apart from a muffled _La Vie En Rose_ playing somewhere through an open window, perhaps coming from a home where two hopeless kids are cuddled up, free of any past regrets. Or maybe it’s an old widow. Someone holding on to that song because it meant something in a past life. Something they don’t have anymore. 

 

I think of just how insufferably universal all those love songs are, how they can apply to everyone and anyone at all. I think of _Modern Love_ , of Sinatra. I think of his playlists and how he’d name them. I think of that night in that motel in Weed. How peaceful it felt. Calm before the storm.

 

I puff out some air. If I could erase him, I would. 

 

“You got a cigarette?” I ask Bill without looking at him, unwilling to see the surprise on his face. He hasn’t seen me smoke in years. I haven’t touched a cigarette in so long, almost since we’ve stopped storing them in the mop closet, but maybe nicotine is the only thing that’ll make this horrible feeling go away. Fuck my lungs up a little more. Let my brain think a little less. 

 

I don’t really expect him to have any, but he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a packet and a lighter, handing them to me without a word. I stare for a second before accepting, trying to figure out when he’s started smoking again. William never tastes of cigarette. 

 

I bring it to my lips and click the lighter, the flame licking the end of it. Inhaling the smoke and feeling it run over my tongue down to my lungs makes me a little lightheaded and relaxes me instantly. I lean against the doorframe as I take another drag, focusing on the feeling of it in my mouth, my lungs, then out, watching the white curls of smoke rise up and fade away in the darkening night sky, taking some of the pain with it. When Jack caught me sucking on a cigarette once, he said the reason why smoke looked like ghosts was because they took some part of your soul away. If cigarettes could truly do that, I’d be dying of lung cancer. Take all of my soul. My memories. Everything. Take all of it; it’s worth nothing to me. 

 

“Hey, Ry?” 

 

I turn my head to face Bill, who’s standing by my side, watching the street, too. His hair’s loose and curly, strands framing his thin face. 

 

“Yeah?” I answer, puffing out smoke, even though I know it can’t be anything good if he had to wait until they’ve left to ask. I already know what he’s going to say before he says it. I brace myself. Flick the ashes away. 

 

“Who’s Brandon?” 

 

I almost snort at the gross mispronunciation of the name, but hold back at the last second because I know he'd get offended. Things like this offend him. 

 

“Brendon,” I correct him nonetheless, because even if I’d love Brendon gone, I won’t let anyone but me soil his name. “Someone I knew back in LA. My neighbour.” The lie slips off my tongue so easily that I wonder why I didn’t tell him earlier, just to get it out of the way and avoid situations like these. “He looked after my dog sometimes.” 

 

Bill says nothing, so I look back at the street, taking one last drag before heading back inside to stub my cigarette in the ashtray on one of the tables, leaving him alone outisde the door. I’ll clean it up later — Bill, the ashtray. Either. Both. 

 

I’m numb.

 

Later, later, later. 


End file.
